


See The Light

by articulatez



Category: Repo! The Genetic Opera (2008), Tangled (2010)
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Child Abuse, Dubious Consent, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Murder, Past Rape/Non-con, Suicide Attempt, Zydrate (Repo!)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-03-24 20:58:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13819338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/articulatez/pseuds/articulatez
Summary: Nathan finds common ground with an overbearing mother. Her intentions, however, are not as decent as his own, and their daughters must struggle to cast off the influence of their childhood oppressors.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first four chapters of this story in 2012 and FINALLY finished it in the beginning of August, 2018.

"Physically, there seems to be nothing wrong with her," the doctor began, removing his gloves with practiced ease. Antibacterial foam creased between his fingers and he rubbed vigorously. The mother didn't wait for him to continue; she perked up at the start of the prognosis.

"Really! That's wonderful. Thank you _so_ much, it is just awful to be stuck with a sick child." She pursed her lips in a syrupy smirk, seeming to show no concern for the child in question, on the other side of the door.

Nathan rubbed his forehead and tried to understand through the mother's eyes. "Your daughter had a seizure. Have you any concern for that?"

"Why, of course! -- I would be, if there were anything to be concerned about." She tossed her crown of hair and laughed. "Flower was overexcited. I'd say that's nothing to fret over."

The doctor could only stare, incredulous and aghast. "Nothing to--?!" He stopped himself.

"The scans did turn out fine, didn't they?" she checked.

"Yes, yes. Fainting spells happen to children, especially those who live in towers."

Showing her satisfaction with a ruby-lipped smile, the mother securely fastened her shawl and made to go back into the room where a little girl sat on the examination table, grinning ear to ear and kicking her feet. Nathan put a hand on her shoulder; the other hand offered a square of paper. "Here's my card, with my work number. Call me if anything should happen."

She took the card and examined it, put it in her purse. "My, that's an original one. You big lug, I know _I'm_ the one you want in a paper gown with my backside bared!" She chuckled and added, "Oh, I'm only teasing. Thank you again."

The door closing behind her effectively dismissed him more than a proper goodbye would have.

Dr. Wallace managed to remove the woman from his thoughts and proceeded through the rest of the week without incident. Friday, not two minutes after arriving home from work, he received an urgent call on his personal communicator.

“Doctor? Hello, it’s Eleanor Gothel—,”

“Where did you get this number?” he cut her off. “Do you have any idea what a serious breach of—”

“Protocols, boundaries, why yes,” she said, sounding breathless. “And more will be breached before the night is dead. No doubt you remember Flower, Doctor, and this is an urgent matter. Please, will you come?”

He thought it over, torn between his duties at home, to manage his own affairs, as he had a right to, and his moral obligation as an honest doctor. Besides, he had to admit that curiosity played a role. He could scrub up later. Having made his decision, his long pause was prompted into change by her exasperated sigh, and she said “Well?”

“I’ll be right over.”

It would be a simple matter to go quickly through his files and find her address. He went to his computer and did so, surprised to see that she owned her house outright. She owned everything, no debts, and her credit was perfect. Astounding. But he would have to investigate later, and it surprised him that he wanted to. This family had piqued his interest. Professional interest, naturally. He left his home as quietly as he’d arrived, and the drive wasn’t terrible. It was late, after all, and traffic had expired.

The Gothel home was vertical, a penthouse of sorts, privately owned and on the outskirts of the city, close to one of the original graveyards. Bemused at the thistles that grew equally with the wildflowers, Nathan kicked aside a bramble that had fallen across his path to the door. He rang. Using the speaker beside the door, Gothel sang out “It’s open!” and he found it was. The entry was bare: stone floors, an elevator against the far wall. He went in and took it to the fifth floor. The doors, oddly enough, were not clear, but reflective metal, allowing him no sight of the levels between. What he was delivered into was a mildly anachronistic world, sparkling clean, the wood floors reflective, the clutter somehow organized. He wondered if they had a maid—but the first floor had been dusty, and the yard was overgrown.

Gothel came from a closed room, heart to her chest. She was in a dressing gown, tied tightly under her bust.

“It was so good of you to come,” she said, and extended an arm to the open door. “Please, please see to her. I don’t know what to do.”

Distractedly, Nathan moved by her into the bedroom. The little girl’s bedroom, painted lavender, painted many things, with abstract patterns, vines, and self-portraits in all the colors of the rainbow. The lights were on, and on the canopied bed, Flower laid prostrate under the covers, her limbs seized. The position was stiff and awkward, although her expression was one of utmost tranquility. Like dead roadkill. He sat on the bed and examined her. She was either asleep, or a damn good fake.

“I found her like this. Ridiculous, don’t you think,” Gothel said, having followed him in, and he hoped she was masking her anxiety with a sarcastically bent humor. She put a hand on his shoulder.

“Well, let’s try waking her,” he said, touching the child’s forehead. It was overly warm. “Feverish.” Which explained the flush on her cheeks, an unnatural dappling of brightest red on her pink complexion. At his touch, and perhaps at the sound of familiar voices, the girl’s body relaxed, and she curled up on her side, hugging at a pillow.

“No, no, let her be,” the mother said hastily. “Will she be all right?”

He looked at her strangely. “Yes, she seems to be in no immediate danger.” Gothel, in an unexpectedly tender gesture, reached out and petted the girl’s long, gold hair. “Now, why don’t we let her rest, and you can tell me the real reason you asked me here.”

Her smile was sly. She went out of the room and beckoned to him. He turned off the bedroom light just before closing the door.

Gothel served tea and sandwiches. Nathan, who’d neglected to eat lunch that day and hadn’t been home long enough for dinner, was grateful. They sat across from each other in wrought iron chairs, the curious doctor and the smug and satisfied mother with a secret in her smirk. She brought her hands together and leaned forward, about to divulge that secret. As she did, the chasm of open skin left by the neckline of her gown proved interesting: generous cleavage, snow white skin, a hint of a silky camisole.

“My Flower is no ordinary child,” she told him. “She’s... unique.”

“Yes, all children are,” he said, smiling.

“Oh-ho, but she is!”

At that moment, a tinny voice said sleepily, “Mama?” Flower hovered in the doorway, dragging her blanket and her long hair behind her. Long-limbed for her age, still she looked so fragile, as fevered children are wont to. Her white nightgown more than touched the floor and made her blushing face look even redder, even brighter. Gothel smiled warmly and beckoned the girl forward. She was somewhat shy and needed more encouragement from her mother to approach.

“You remember Dr. Wallace,” Gothel prompted her.

“Yes, Mama,” Flower said shyly.

Nathan tried to be kind. It was, however, quite late, and nothing out of the ordinary had happened. It was difficult not to lose patience. Gothel ushered the girl onto her lap.

“May I show him your gift?” she asked. The girl hesitated. “He won’t harm you.”

“I don’t want to hurt,” Flower murmured, both curling closer to Gothel’s body and moving away from her hands.

“It will only hurt a moment, and then we’ll both feel lovely, won’t we.” She kissed the girl’s hair. “Fetch my sewing kit. There’s a good girl.”

Grabbing a sandwich from the tray and stuffing it in her mouth, the girl went off to hop up on a counter, reaching into a cupboard. She came back with a basket, and sat back on Gothel’s lap. Long, white fingers took out a thread ripper that looked closer to a medical scalpel.

“Wait, what on earth are you doing?” Nathan asked, starting from his seat.

Gothel smiled and told him to sit down. “Trust me. Watch.”

Against all his professional instincts, he gave in to his wondering and took a seat, watching as she took the girl’s limp hand. She stabbed it quickly, without a trace of viciousness. Blood sprang up from the tear, and tears sprang up in the girl’s eyes. She hastily buried her face in her mother’s arms, the hands stroking her hair. Nathan was well and truly horrified. The woman gave no explanation, and instead began to sing.

“Flower, gleam and glow...”

He thought his eyes were malfunctioning. His glasses could not have been that fogged from the tea. Had she drugged him?

The hair, the absurdly long blonde hair that Flower dragged everywhere—it glowed like a nightlight, a bright light! Flower went limp and fell asleep smiling. Gothel wrapped a lengthy lock around both their hands, and he saw that the cut healed, and that Gothel... Gothel appeared refreshed, rejuvenated. She gave a great sigh, smiling as well.

After they’d returned Flower to her bedroom, and Nathan had a glass of water to brew over, he managed to say “How?”

“When she was in the womb, she took the effects of a special flower ingested by her mother. That flower once grew in this graveyard, a long time ago. Now, it is barren,” she sadly said. “Oh, there are flowers, to be sure. None special. Ordinary weeds that bloom briefly, wither, die.”

“Yes, that’s life. Her hair... it healed her hand,” he said, amazed.

“That is her gift. She’s my dearest. I’d never trade her, not for all the gold in the world,” she said, and it occurred to Nathan that such a ‘talent’ would be very valuable. If it fell into the wrong hands...

Well, he wouldn’t say a word.

“I don’t understand. But I will keep this confidence. Why did you wish to share this with me?” he asked.

“I want you to study it, of course. Doctor, if you can extract the flower’s nature from her hair, think of what _good_ I could do with it!”

“Very well. With a sample of it, I’m sure—,”

“NO! No, you can’t cut it!” she said in genuine alarm and fear. “If you cut it, it won’t work. You must think I’m out of my mind.”

“Would have thought so, before I saw a girl’s hair light up like the fourth of July,” he said wryly. “Oh, God, what am I thinking? This is ridiculous. You expect me to help you because she’s a little lightning bug. That does not excuse that you hurt your child in my presence!”

When she chuckled and smirked in response, his anger unexpectedly flared; one hand shot out and took her arm in a death grip.

“You won’t report me,” she purred.

In a growl, he pressed “Why is that, you impertinent harpy?”

“You’re...” She used her uncaught fingers to pry his vise grip from her skin. The marks were red, and then they faded. “Intrigued. A man of science who finds beauty in her blood. You’ll do it because you can see the potential, too. To distill a miracle draught, imagine! The death of old age. The death of plagues and decay!”

“There must be another way,” he said, made weak by her glorious vision. It was impossible to deny how her ambition sparked his. For Nathan, as well, there was the possibility of remedying past mistakes. His sins might never be forgiven, but if he changed the world, he could feel decent again.

“No. It is activated by her pain. At least, that’s been what I’ve found to be true.” Her crimson talons stroked his hand. He removed it with a disgusted scowl. “Ignore your conscience. You’ll find no use for it with me. Besides, you’re fond of pain, aren’t you.”

“I find no pleasure in the violence inflicted on another person,” he lied.

“Of course not, how silly. In moving forward, we must be calculating and careful. She is my treasure, and I won’t let any harm come to her. At the hospital, your skill is remarkable. The last true professional, completely removed from the melodrama of families. Blah blah blah, it gets _very_ annoying. I don’t know _how_ you put up with it!”

He couldn’t help but smirk. She did have a point.

“That’s why I chose you,” she told him matter-of-factly.

“Chose me? Nonsense!” he bristled, putting on his coat, picking and plucking at the keys in his pocket. They jingled as pleasant bells.

“Give me some credit, Doctor. To put my daughter’s health in another’s hands, why wouldn’t I research the candidates?”

She forced him, continuously, to weigh himself and rejudge his opinions, mainly those regarding her. Nathan was not used to being questioned. It was irritating.

“Stay out of my files,” he warned her.

“Don’t worry. No pains were taken to unearth your secrets. Now, can I count on you to help me?” He did not answer right after, still warily contemplating this proposal that was certainly in an ethical gray area. “If it’s any consolation to your soul, her condition seems to tie in with her seizures.”

She’d lied to him. “Seizures. Then it’s happened before?”

She nodded grimly. “Flower had one before she fell ill this evening. Yes.”

Nothing left to do. “Bring her to my home tomorrow night. I’ll send you the address. She should be fine until then; get some water in her, and call me if something goes wrong. You have my card.”

“I do. Goodnight.”

The night made the exterior of the premises foreboding, as something out of a fairy tale would. It rose up, towered ominously, few windows and a steep roof. The thistles caught at his pant legs when he walked slightly off the path to reach his car. Nathan struggled with the radio; this far in the distance, all he managed to finagle was static and the occasional crackle of a song or commercial. Bright headlights illuminated the empty and lonely road.

In the cemetary behind Gothel’s tower, a tall figure skulked and crept. He picked through the grassy plots, checking for a non-decomposed corpse; alas, they had become mulch. Human compost, of no use to him. The teenager brushed his greasy hair off his face, paying no mind to the fresh earth he’d inadvertently painted on his forehead. “This was a shit tip-off,” he grumbled, hefting a bag and prepping for his flight. A car, pulling away from the property, briefly flashed its light right at him. The car slammed to a stop in its reverse. The teenager momentarily froze and felt like a rabbit, twitchy and fast. He squinted but could not make out the driver’s face past the blinding lights.

He dropped to the ground in the overgrown grass and held his breath.

“Strange. I thought I saw something,” Nathan said. He chalked it up to being tired and overworked, and continued to back out, turn around, begin the drive home. The teenager heaved a sigh of relief. That stroke of luck inflamed his ego, and he laughed aloud as he ran back where he’d come from.

 

* * *

 

Gothel was late. Nathan found himself waiting by the door, impatiently. Here he was, sacrificing his free time for her mysterious little scheme, and she didn’t even have the decency to arrive on time. He’d sent her his address and she’d said six o’clock. Sharp. He checked the time. Oh. It was a quarter to six. How silly. The gate rang out. Hastily, he strode out and let the visitors in the gate and into his home. It occurred to him that no one besides himself had crossed that threshold in years.

“Were you waiting by the door?” Flower asked curiously. She tugged on his shirt. “This is a lady’s shirt! It has flowers on it.”

“Pet, we mustn’t be rude,” Gothel shushed her, mortified. She even blushed. “Doctor, so good of you to even _consider_ my offer! How can I ever repay you?”

“My ‘office,’ if you can call it that, is just this way,” he said, indicating the open passage. He’d taken care to stow away any items that would not be fit for company. That did nothing to assuage his anxiety at allowing strangers to poke about in his home. Flower skipped ahead, her hair trailing behind her. Gothel, on the other hand, stood and looked at the portrait hanging over the tunnel.

“She’s very beautiful, Dr. Wallace. Almost as pretty as me!” she declared, and chortled. “I’m just kidding. Who is she, dear?”

He sighed. “My wife. She... passed.”

Gothel sucked on her lips and evidently came to some conclusion. “Death haunts us all. The world finds beauty and crushes it.”

It might have been a moment had Flower not peeked her head around the corner. She was close to hopping with excitement. “Mother, there’s a big white table with a giant paper towel on it!” Gothel shrugged at Nathan and followed the little girl down the passageway to Nathan Wallace’s den.

She climbed up on the table all by herself, and with a smile let Nathan examine her. He asked how she was feeling, asked if she could sing a special song for him. Mommy’s song. Wide-eyed, she went ahead and sang a few more lines of the song than he’d heard before. Absolutely no change. There was nary a sparkle in that abundant head of hair. Her mother’s smirk smacked of an “I told you so.” He ignored this and reached for a needle.

“If you’ll be a good girl and sit very calm and quiet, I’ll give you some candy,” he said with a friendly gesture to the jar of lollipops he’d set up on the counter. A thought occurred to him; he turned to Gothel, questioning. “That is, if she can have sugar.” She nodded. “Good.”

Flower turned up her arm and flicked it, sending the sleeve flying back. The forearm was exposed. Expertly, he pushed the needle into the vein. A hand squeezed his shoulder as her blood filled the body of the syringe.

“You were very brave,” he complimented her, sticking a band-aid over the red dot. Her mother handed her a blue sucker and told her to run along, giving her a playful swat on the butt. Flower picked up an armful of her hair mid-stride. Really, the girl made him think of a galloping pony.

He became transfixed. In the microscope, his eye fixed on the slide smeared with red and magnified until it became unrecognizable as blood. “Extraordinary. Extraordinary,” he murmured, fixing the focus. “Eleanor, your daughter has beautiful blood. It reminds me of...” He removed it, and prepared a new slide with a drop of Zydrate. “Maybe it’s a relative, whatever that foreign contaminant to her blood happens to be.”

Her touch was on his shoulder. She leaned over him, her breasts gently pressing to his back, and asked to look. Swapping the slides, he nudged the base closer to her. She braced her hands on the table and looked down. He was conscious of her body to his back, and her hair on his neck. A haughty woman, and she had reason to be prideful of her appearance and carriage. Nathan was aware of every breath he took, with her peering over his shoulder. At last, she let go of the table, continuing to lean into his back. Her hands caressed his shoulders and neck, then dipped down the collar of his shirt to touch his chest.

“Wait,” he said, turning. She was close to his height, but all woman, and sultry as anything he’d ever seen. “What are you doing?”

“Doctor, it’s been a long time since I’ve been with anyone. Indulge my fancy and I’ll see you get your just desserts,” she vowed. Swaying to the door, she set the lock. “There. Now we won’t be disturbed.”

 

* * *

 

Ho hum, nothing to do here, either, but at least she wasn’t home. She welcomed a change of pace. For a while, she skipped about the hallway, hooting like an owl and chasing the echoes in the curves. Her mom didn’t come back to get her, or call for her, and she slumped on the ground, bored. She started to count her hairs and gave up after seventy-four; she couldn’t count any higher and skipped several numbers because she couldn’t remember how they went. She thumped her head on the wall and said she was bored, she was bored, she was so bored. At home, she had her paints. Here, there was... a tunnel. Dragging her feet dramatically, Flower plodded back to the door to the nice doctor’s office and put her ear on it.

He and her mom were having a singing contest, practicing their scales on ‘oh’s and ‘ah’s. Flower had them both beat. She tried the door. No good; locked. “Oh well!” she exclaimed, and went off to explore the rest of the house.

He had stairs, she’d noticed when they came in. Big ones. She’d not realized how big, now that she wasn’t holding her mother’s hand. She stared up and wondered what was at the top. It twisted and turned like a vine. There was only one way to find out, and she tried it, putting one foot after the other, up and up. Upstairs were a bunch of rooms. She heard sounds coming from one, so she went up to it and knocked politely.

“Dad?” came a voice, hoarser than her own. “Is it time?”

“Time for what?” Flower asked. A long silence followed. Flower tilted her head and tried again, knocking hard. “Hello! Talk to me!”

“Go away.” The voice was closer now, and then far, and then close, then far; the kid on the other side of the door was either pacing or an adept ventriloquist. “I can’t have people from the outside getting me sick.”

“I won’t get you sick. I just went to the doctor,” she explained. “Do you have toys in there?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I _told_ you. My mother took me to the doctor, and that’s here!” Flower patiently repeated. She tried the knob, rattled it. “What is it with this house and locked doors?”

“That’s not right. Neither of us have guests. It’s in the rules,” the kid said.

“I’m a little girl.”

“I’m a girl, too. Dad says I’ll grow.”

“Please let me in,” Flower begged. She wouldn’t have wanted to so bad if the girl would just let her in. But no!

“I can’t,” she said sullenly. “I’m... locked in. For my safety.” Flower was about to say that didn’t make any sense when the girl begged her to please go away. “There’s toys in my dad’s room, down the hall. Go play.”

“But I want to play with you!” Flower whined. She’d not noticed the step on the stairs behind her, but the girl on the other side of the door did; she gasped and retreated, her sounds fading until there was a thumb that Flower recognized as a jump onto a bed.

“Why are you talking to a door?” her mother asked, laughing.

Flower pointed at the doorknob, and looked at Dr. Wallace, standing behind her, looking frightened and ruffled. The top two buttons of his shirt weren’t done, and his hair stuck up all over the place. “There’s a girl in there!” she informed him earnestly. “I talked to her!”

“The doctor doesn’t want to hear about your wild imaginings,” her mother said, taking her hand. She shook it off.

“It’s real! There’s a girl in there!”

Coldly: “Flower, enough.”

“No, Mama, let’s open the door! You’ll see!”

“ _Rapunzel!_ ” she snarled, and grabbed her by the hand, jerking her toward the stairs.

Flower screamed, not really in pain, and threw herself on the ground, kicking and thrashing. She shrieked that she had too talked to a girl, she _had_ , and the repeated assertions soon devolved into senseless screams. Nathan knelt and tried to calm her; he was smacked in the solar plexus with one of her bare feet for his efforts. Gothel explained that there was no reasoning with children. She picked up the girl and held her tight to keep her from flailing.

“If you don’t stop this at once, you will lose daylight privileges for a week,” she told her. The girl’s sobs became snuffles, and then she was a teary thing, red in the face and limp in her mother’s arms. She put her arms around the woman’s neck. “And now she’s wiping her snotty little nose on my dress. Lovely.”

“I’m very sorry. If it’s anything I’ve done...”

“No, no. She’s tired. I’ll take her home and put her to bed.” Eleanor stroked Flower’s back in soothing circles, her fingers raking through the hair.

He saw her to the door, and there was – at least, on his part—an awkward pause at the parting. What to say, what to do. He’d never been one to engage in casual activities, and with Gothel’s daughter in her arms, it would hardly have been appropriate for him to allude to what they’d been up to. No kiss on the cheek, no offer to buy her dinner. She thanked him, and apologized for her child making a scene.

He’d misjudged her as a mother, thinking her unfeeling. Gothel had a strange sense of humor, but there was care in how she treated the girl. Affectionate touches went easily between them, and when the child was hurt, she went right into her mother’s arms for comfort. She obeyed her every word to the letter.

“I’ll let you know if I come up with tangible results,” he said.

“Do you ever let up on the doctor speak? Oh, I’m just teasing. You know I am. Take care, and goodbye!”

Nathan was sort of dazed in her wake.

She wasn’t happy with him. He could tell from the instant he got the door open. A tiny, white creature overwhelmed by the size of her black wig, she huddled on the bed and narrowed her eyes in annoyance.

“Daddy, you said no guests,” she said. He went to her, pushed the plastic canopy aside and sat down. “They messed up your hair.” She knelt behind him and set about fixing his hair with her fingers.

“Not guests, Shi, patients. One of them is sick, and I was helping her,” he said.

“Which one?” she asked. She stopped preening him and set back to admire his handiwork, letting him gaze upon her. Pale and sweet, she’d drawn dark circles around her eyes with black liner. He frowned.

“You know I can’t say. Shilo, that’s far too much makeup.”

“Mag wears more,” she said.

“You’re not Mag. And she’s a grown woman. When you’re older, you can wear more.” He got a tissue from her nightstand and gave it to her. “Until then...” She wiped it off, which temporarily made it worse. And then she was clean-faced and he hugged her. “You took your medicine, didn’t you, precious?”

“Yes, Dad.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Nathan, in the years he’d invested becoming a doctor, a surgeon, a master of his craft, had never imagined that he’d find himself singing, albeit quietly, to vials of blood in various altered states, all in an attempt to coax an obvious, visible response. He danced on his toes, begging for evidence of his work at tampering what gift nature had bestowed on Gothel’s child to reveal itself. Alas, to no use, and they’d been at this for a month, nearly: working late into the night, researching, with the occasional break. He smiled, so subtly that it was all but imperceptible. Work was dreadful and hard, and the blood and fear was never quite washed clean... so naturally his extracurricular activities involved pain, blood, halting death for some lucky bastards in the future—much like his thankless job.

“Flower...” He laughed at himself. Gothel slithered into his lab with her copied key. It had been done with his permission, the sort of permission granted in a heated moment, when mouths were dropping kisses like milk and honey. Flower followed after, holding up the back of her mother’s long, scarlet dress. She let it fall on the floor and went to the doctor, held out her arm for him to prick. “We won’t be needing that today,” he said, tapping her nose and inwardly elating in her grateful smile.

“Run along, my dear,” Gothel told the girl. “The adults need to speak. Don’t we, Nathan?”

“Oh. Yes, of course,” he agreed, and they sent her out after she gave her mother another affectionate squeeze around her hips.

“Are we any closer?” Cracks in the dry earth, fine wrinkles around her eyes; it brought their age closer together, placed them on even footing when her youthful appearance was undone. He admired the ash grey in her hair. His fingers wove through it and found the nape of her neck.

“Soon.” A kiss to her throat made a shiver spiral through her body. “No, not. I’m stumped.”

Impatient, she pushed him away and strode to a rack with a dark cloth over it.

“Don’t!”

A wicked smirk made her face a twisted jack-o-lantern. In one fluid motion, she ripped it from the helmet on it, the secret, the infamous one. Nathan Wallace was that dreaded night reaper.

“Well, well!” she crowed. “A Repo Man.”

Somehow it did not surprise him that she showed no fear. What a strange woman. “Yes,” he said warily. The man was, on the contrary, afraid.

“Tell me, darling, what other secrets are you hiding?”

“Some things should not be unearthed,” he warned her.

“Oh, Nathan, you sweet, confident, handsome fool. You will tell me.” She ripped away the dark cloaks of fabric all around his office that camouflaged his secret life, the uniform, equipment, medical supplies, surgical instruments. Gothel beheld it all, casting her eyes about. “What have we here.”

“You judge me?” he tested. “Do you dare?”

“Why would I?” she drawled. “You know just as well that I’m not a saint. And I know what you see when you look at me.”

Her idle hands picked up a scalpel and began to play, seemingly heedless of the pain that could be delivered. “Your wife. Ah, yes, she was _so_ beautiful!” The bells in her voice rang shrill and pained him, to the point where his teeth gritted together.

“Don’t you speak of her,” snarled Nathan. The prickly thought couldn’t be removed. Gothel’s hair was black and curled tempestuously in front of her eyes and down her back. Aside from the pure sex and malice in her demeanor, she bore a strong resemblance to his late wife. Physically. It was unnerving and alluring at once.

“Where did she go,” Gothel murmured. “Did she abandon you in your darkest hour?”

That was how it felt, at times. He would never admit that. Removing his glasses and locking the door, he said no. “She was very ill. With child. God rest her soul—I tried to save her. Instead...” Instead, she’d bled out in his arms.

“Oh, my dear.” Gothel put her arms around him, her body to his back, and kissed his shoulders.

“I killed her. I killed my wife.”

“There, there. It’s going to be all right.” Sticky prints were left on his throat. She held him tighter. “You worship blood, and blood is what you love.” The scalpel, in the hand pressed to his chest, nicked him through the fabric.

He winced out loud. “An accident?”

“Of course not.”

Now, that would not do. He pulled her over his shoulder, slamming her back to collide with a counter and trapping her there. Her eyes were eager, frightened as a poor animal that has become prey, and she was breathless from his show of strength and dominance. The little scratch bleeding on his shirt was all but forgotten in his excitement. The monster was coming out to play. Her wrist that held the mighty Repo knife trembled like a chime. Easily, he disarmed the lovely wretch.

 

* * *

 

Flower took it step by step, up the stairs, and down the halls until she saw The Door. It had been locked before. She skipped to it and knocked. “Hi again. It’s me,” she greeted the unseen girl on the other side.

“Ill girl, go be ill elsewhere,” the voice snipped back. “You are not coming in.”

She pouted and knelt hard enough for her knees to make a noise. “Oh, please? I’ll… I’ll cry if you don’t.”

“Oh, no. Don’t cry,” the girl begged. “I get migraines.”

“What’s a migraine?” Flower wondered. She examined the doorknob. It was locked with a key, not a switch in the room.

“It’s when your head hurts.”

“Oh. Okay. I won’t cry,” Flower said agreeably. “Let me in, please? I won’t touch anything unless you let me, and we don’t even have to talk! I promise.”

The girl sighed. Flower was starting to think that was how she breathed, by sighing long and deep in her lungs. “I can’t.” Her voice was strained. “Dad’s… I’m locked in. Be a good girl and run along. Leave me alone to die,” she said in a dramatic tone.

Flower giggled. “Oh, I know about fixing locks!” She unstuck a bobby pin from her bangs, twisted it up, and slid it under the door. “That opens doors. Try it,” she urged. She stood up and listened, and the door opened up.

The little girl was short and dainty, with long black hair and big dark eyes and a little mouth. Her arms were blacked out with netting, and her nightgown had a collar that ruffled up to her little chin.

“Oh, you look like a doll!” Flower exclaimed, bounding forward and hugging the girl. She’d never had a playmate before! She had seen children in books, on TV screens, on the streets below the tower, but never in person!

“Get off of me!” the doll girl protested in a panicky voice. She was stiff like a plank. Except softer.

“Oops.” Flower let go and was instantly distracted by an enormous stuffed bear on the four poster bed. Squealing, she ran and jumped on the bed—only to sail through plastic, which she hadn’t noticed until her body made contact. She had to unstick her skin from it. The bed was bouncy, and the bear was huggable.

The doll girl closed the door and watched Flower warily from there. “You said you wouldn’t touch, remember,” she reminded her.

“Oh.” She _had_ said that. She twitched and looked around the room. There was so much, and it was different from how her room looked.

It took a few minutes for Flower to be calmed down, although with her penchant for hopping about and exclaiming how excited she was at the top of her lungs, it proved a difficult task for the doll girl. She introduced herself as Shilo Wallace, and said that Flower could play in here while the grown-ups were busy, but then she had to leave straight away. There would be absolutely no physical contact between them, she firmly insisted, and then made a pile of the toys and animals that the stranger was allowed to play with. That being said, she took a book and sat on her couch to study.

Flower walked around with a stuffed kangaroo under her arm and inspected everything in the room, her hair trailing like a leash. Finally, she grew the right amount of bored and curious and crept up to Shilo Wallace, and put her hands on the edge of the couch and her chin between her hands. She was almost looking up the dress except not quite. She was looking at her tightly drawn little face, with its tiny, focused scowl.

“Whatcha reading?” she pestered.

“A book.”

“About what?”

“Insects.”

Flower made a face. “Eww. Why are you doing that?”

“They’re beautiful,” Shilo said, finally taking her eyes from the text. Flower peered up and was dismayed to find that there were barely any pictures, and the words were teensy, like ants crawling along the page. “No one else likes or understands them. They’re shunned. Stepped on. But they are fascinating. Do you want to see?”

Mama coached her on how not to be rude. She didn’t really want to see the bugs. She said yes anyway, though, because that was the nice thing to do.

Shilo flew into motion. She set out boxes and cases, kits and displays, of dead, preserved creatures. The girl had stuck pins all in them and made them artful in a dark way. Flower was able to piece together that Shilo transformed the bugs into collections just like she made the walls of her home into a gallery with a brush and paints.

The bugs were just as colorful. Flower wasn’t disgusted, like she’d thought. It wasn’t gross at all. The whole room was cluttered, but clean nonetheless, and that went for the collection of creepie crawlies. The butterflies were especially pretty, with their delicate, lighter-than-tissue wings carefully spread out and secured.

Flower grinned and jabbed her finger at a bug, accidentally dislodged a needle and tore off a leg. Shilo shrieked and smacked her hard on the cheek.

“Spoiled rotten brat!” she yelped, not paying her any attention, instead devoting all her efforts to trying, in vain, to restore her precious specimen. “ _Damn_ it. And damn you, too! Now Dad will have to replace it, and who knows how long that’ll take?”

Stunned, Flower pressed her hand to her cheek and kept it there.

 

* * *

 

Gothel deduced and adjusted to the reality that her Nathan (how _preposterous_ , he was simply a man, and she had no true claim to him) had a darker, rather more violent self. A split in the gentle personality, and when he’d become twain, the emerging figure was one of violence, mania, and raw power. No doubt that was how he could execute his GeneCo orders, and execute his victims, without troubling his sliver of a conscience.

He would not harm her. She knew that, for he made no attempts to retrieve a knife. All he’d done was strap her to a gurney and tear her clothes off with his teeth, all while she rolled her shoulders and tried to get her hands free gracefully. Ah well, she would have to make do with appreciating his efforts, and not waste time lamenting that she could not be an active participant, as such.

“Repo Man,” she purred, and he sprang toward the gurney – he had been grinning rabidly at his reflection in a mirror – and skittered up along her body like a beetle, clicking his teeth and grinding on her bared legs.

He kissed her hard at her jawline and groped her breast.

“Your _wife_ , darling, what was her name,” she wanted to know.

He hissed and squeezed the pale flesh in hand.

“It would help, dear, sweet Nathan. Come, now. Who’s my night surgeon?” she crooned, her voice positively _dripping_ with syrup.

“Marni.” He bent his head and nuzzled her cleavage, made fuller with the help of a good bra. She hadn’t fed from her source of energy in some time. Almost a week’s time, and her age was showing. Her thoughts alternated between useless fretting over her appearance and delight that she was being carnally worshipped by a man who was, perhaps, her equal in wits, ambition, and ruthlessness. Oh, and there was arousal, of course, that familiar shuddering between her thighs and in her bosom.

He gave a sad moan, and then Repo Man carried on, biting and sucking at her skin until she felt raw and wanton. He stripped off his clothes. And then he started, and it was nothing like before. There was very little of that tenderness she’d grown used to and, frankly, bored with. Gothel found foreplay very annoying. It was time when she laid back and rolled her eyes and waited for what she really wanted.

 _This_ was what she’d wanted all along. Vicious. Hungry.

He did not talk, grunted, bared his teeth. The glint in his eye was frightening and delightful, intensified the pleasure building in her body.

“Oh, oh, yes, yes Nathan,” she murmured, tracing her talons down his back, digging into the skin to make him feel a touch of pain, to make him dig into her deeper.

Repo Man came to his end, and so did she, and they laid on the gurney, spent. Nathan returned from wherever he’d gone off to, and looked horror-struck and ashamed of himself. He undid the straps on her arms and legs, rubbing at the red marks, the slight bruising on her flesh.

“Did—did I hurt you?” he worried.

“Far from it.” She grasped his face in both her hands and kissed his mouth. “That was marvelous. Trust me, my dear.”

Satisfied with that answer, he closed his eyes and rested his head on her breast, and she stroked his hair, luxuriating in the sensations shivering through her body almost as beautiful as a restoration. From his clothes, abandoned on a counter, there came a most annoying beeping noise, persisting and emitting a message: _Blood pressure warning. Medicine reminder. Medicine reminder._

“What on earth is that? How very annoying,” she complained. Nathan bolted up, frantic in an instant.

“Shilo,” he groaned, hitting the back of his hand to his forehead and grimacing. He turned to Gothel. “Get dressed. Quickly.”

“I’m not used to being ordered about by naked men,” she sneered. “Who or what is Shilo?”

Rather than answer her, he hurriedly tugged on his clothes, snapped on his communicator, and left, giving her little choice but to follow him, bemused and displeased with this unexpected turn of events. For once, she’d wanted to cuddle.

Nathan raced to Shilo’s room, and was shocked to find the door unlocked. He opened it and saw Shilo choking, hand to her throat, on the floor. Flower had her hands over her eyes and rocked back and forth, her hair a barricade from the frightening scene before her. Nathan, cursing himself for a neglectful fool, snapped out of his horror and into action, fetching Shilo her medicine and water, pressing both into her hand. It had to be her hand that unsnapped the bottle and plucked out the pills. Shakily, she did what she’d practiced for years and took her medicine.

“Shilo, why would you open the door? Why?!” he demanded.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, reddening her eyes but failing to alter her sallow complexion. Swallowing bile, she answered that she didn’t know.

Flower continued to waver back and forth. He ignored her, hugged his daughter, his precious little girl. He’d be lost without her. In becoming so entrenched in this pet project, he’d nearly forgotten just how much she meant to him.

“I’m okay, Dad. It’s fine now.” She petted his back briefly before pushing him off.

“Shi, I’m very disappointed,” he told her, adjusting her wig.

“It’s not my fault,” she protested.

“No?”

Soundlessly, she pointed at the blonde cowering in a shroud of hair.

Nathan turned.

“My, oh my. You are a man of secrets, aren’t you,” came Gothel’s voice from the doorway. She hastened to Flower’s side and brought her close. Flower sobbed and hugged her mother. Instantly, the woman’s hard anger softened with love and concern. “There, there. I’m here. Mother’s here to help. Mother won’t let anything happen to you, will she?”

“No,” Flower agreed, tears in her voice.

“We’re leaving.” She kissed her child’s hair, gently unwound the layers that were wrapped around her and guided her to her feet.

Nathan stood up. “Wait.”

Shilo looked around the arm, tense from being surrounded by strangers, people she didn’t know who’d seemed to come from nowhere. She didn’t care for any of them. What she wanted most was for them to leave her bedroom, like the woman threatened, and let her sleep off the terror of almost—almost what? Dying?

“Explain _this_ , Nathan,” Gothel bade him. Her hand gestured wildly on ‘this’ in Shilo’s direction, where she sat crumpled on the floor.

Nathan put a hand on Shilo’s head. “This is Shilo. She’s my daughter.”

“Then we have more in common than I thought,” she mused. “Why don’t I leave you two be. I am not happy about this.”

“Nor am I. Shilo is very ill. She’s not allowed to have guests. Her door remains locked, and for good reason. What could have happened...” He broke off. He’d been so careless. This could not happen again. “From now on, we’ll conduct our business elsewhere.”

“Fine.”

And with a dramatic flair of her dress, she was gone. Shilo got up and shakily went to the window, fanned out the stranger’s perfume.

 

* * *

 

True to his word, Nathan’s house was now forbidden to the Gothels as a research facility or a place to romp and wreak havoc on his private life. It took weeks to undo the damage caused by the Gothel daughter’s intrusion. Physically, nothing was wrong, but psychologically? Nightmare! Shilo had gotten it into her head that she should try breaking out of her room and exploring. He’d caught her outside her room twice, scolded her soundly both times, and finally had to resort to changing the locks. He made only one copy of the new key. Though he insisted it was for her own good, she stubbornly held the change against him for days, refusing to talk to him or hug or kiss goodnight.

That did not mean his lust for Eleanor had cooled in the slightest. On the contrary, she knew just how to draw out the monster so that he could lie with her as he wanted to: unrestrained, passionate, ardent lovemaking when Flower was unconscious in her bedroom, when his performance in research was adequate.

Then, he had a breakthrough, quite by accident, and the vial glowed. He could not believe it at first. It shone brighter than Zydrate, as if some scum of the earth graverobber had harvested from a god. Nathan held it up and saw the glow reflected in Gothel’s heavy-lidded eyes. “There,” he breathed, afraid that too loud a noise, too grand a reaction would cause it to stop. “There you have it. A healthy glow.”

“That’s it?” she questioned. “Do you... drink it?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” he said, letting out a laugh. “Do you really want to drink blood?”

“For youth... beauty... I would.”

And there was no doubt in his mind that she was serious. It troubled him, created unease.

“Let’s try injecting it.” He took a Zydrate gun from his bag and fitted the gun with the new vial while it still glowed, determined as an inanimate object could be. With all the tender care of a lover – which, now that he thought about it, was what he was—he rolled up her billowy sleeve and injected her with the fresh glow. It pooled in her veins, at the injection site, visible below the surface, and shot up through the rest of her, through the ends of her hair and all down her body. He stroked her hand as she watched her body’s reaction in alarm. The light subsided. The change rendered by that light, however, did not.

A newness had permeated her whole self. She looked to be twenty.

“My God,” he said.

This was unnatural. This was not right. Rotti would have been proud, and would want to capitalize on this as soon as he heard about this. And why wouldn’t he? He owned the world! If Gothel refused out of selfish pride, and entreated Nathan to join her in foolish rebellion, they’d be dead. The king of the island would have no qualms about sending someone to assassinate the loyal assassin.

If he died, Shilo would have no one. She would die in her bedroom, choking on air and hating him for abandoning her in her time of greatest need.

Whether it was an attack of his conscience or a sudden strike of self preservation or both, Nathan knew this was a mistake that could not be repeated. As his thoughts raced to their awful conclusion, Gothel examined herself in the mirror, pinched and dragged at her skin. Nothing sagged. She was smooth, beautiful, perfect. It was an abomination.

“Eleanor.”

“Oh, Nathan, you marvelous man! And here I never thought you had it in you. Oh, I’m just kidding, don’t be so serious! Always so serious,” she chattered. She squeezed her breasts. “So firm! So pert! Darling, you _must_ try me out. How long will this last, do you think?”

He couldn’t say.

Elsewhere, Shilo’s hoarding at last took its toll. She collapsed beside her desk, went slack, as if in a deep sleep. Nathan’s wrist was speaking to him. It fairly screamed, at least to him it seemed that it should have been screaming instead of that cool, calm drone. Not medicine reminder. It said warning, warning; patient has gone into shock. Warning.

“No, oh no,” he said, and grabbed his bag, his papers. “Shilo!”

“Oh, her again. Nathan, leave her be.” Gothel purred, stepping in his way.

“She is my daughter! I’m her doctor. I have to be there for her,” he said.

“Yes, you’re very attentive. Stay here. Help me celebrate,” she suggested with a smile.

“Are you out of your mind? She could be dying right now! She could be—Oh, move!” He moved her aside, roughly.

“It’s high time she learned to fend for herself, Nathan Wallace!” she shouted.

“She’s a _child_ , Eleanor!”

“Enough with the holier-than-thou attitude! You’re the night surgeon, remember?” she jeered cruelly.

He turned back, his expression ablaze with fury. Behind the fury was a tempered hurt. This was it for them. No more. She cared only for herself. It was doubtful if she even cared for her daughter. He could have no future with her, and he had deluded himself by ever thinking that would be possible. It only reinforced that the only woman for him was Marni, and she was dead and gone. Shilo. He had to get home to Shilo before it was too late. He spoke quickly. “Of course I do. But she needs me. Goodbye.”

Panicking, she chased him to the elevator. “Nathan! Nathan, wait, I didn’t mean it. Ha ha, of course not!” She faked the little laugh. “Nathan, what about our research? What about changing the world?”

“Give it up. Age gracefully,” he advised her. “Just leave me out of it.” The elevator doors closed in her face. It gave him no satisfaction, because he had to save his child. That was all that really mattered.

Shilo was comatose on her bedroom floor. He wailed, thinking he’d lost her as he’d lost Marni: a terrible mistake, and him to blame. When he held her, he detected a heartbeat, and his pulse leaped. He took care of her, brought her back, and vowed to let no one come between them ever again, especially no soulless Marni lookalikes.

He and Eleanor did not speak again, and Shilo was so frightened by what her reckless bad habit had caused that she dutifully took her medicine on schedule from there on.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Flynn, baby,” the girl cooed, rolling onto his chest and splaying her hands there. Her legs eased open. “I’ve been a good girl. Won’t you give me a kiss?”

He smiled, an easy, well-practiced, smarmy grin. “Oh, fine, since you insist.” His hands went behind her back and he kissed her mouth. She tasted like a potent combination of Zydrate and vodka. It was intoxicating! He’d done this before—with her, even, and still he found it exciting, adventurous. Sleeping with her, skulking around. Thieving jewels by day and hearts by night! Imagine! Sometimes it went the other way, like this day, when he tumbled and rolled around in her bed with her.

“How’s that?” he asked, then boasted, “Pretty fantastic, am I right?”

In answer, Amber’s fingers hooked in his hair and hauled his head up for a more intensive exploration, her tongue darting about rather nimbly for someone who was more than halfway to drunkenness. He made a sound, felt his body react, ran his hands up from her stomach to her breasts. She arched into his touch, kneeling on him. It wasn’t perfectly comfortable, but he wasn’t going to complain; he had an heiress’s breasts in his hands and her tongue in his mouth. If he complained, he would be an absolute numskull. He turned them around so she was beneath him, and he removed her leather jacket. Underneath... a sparkly bra, pushing her breasts up and together cozily. He basked in the gleaming sequins, dropping his head to rest in her cleavage.

“Ahhh,” he said happily.

She smacked and shoved at him. “You’re heavy, you oaf! Off!”

He obeyed, springing up and standing on her bed with his hands on his hips. He grinned down at her, with her hair mussed and her chest pretty well exposed, her skirt pushed up. “Wow. I could get used to a sight like this.”

“Flynn,” she said.

“Yep. I’m used to it.”

Amber kicked his feet out from under him, pounced, and they tussled together like animals, and if she was an animal, she’d be a puma, using teeth and nails to her advantage, mauling him, tearing at his clothes and devouring him with kisses. At the same time, she would slink and purr and be suave. The duality of her primal nature and her practiced, seductive airs was fascinating to watch and fun to experience. He gave back, tore at her clothes, and experienced her body in ways most men could only dream of.

It was the life. Every guy wanted it, wanted _her_ , and Flynn actually had achieved it—somehow. He was always fuzzy on the details, how he’d finagled his way into her bed and into his thieving occupation. Still, with her sleeping afterward, the surgery scars exposed, he couldn’t help but feel... empty.

The next evening, he broke in and stole several of Sweet’s necklaces, stuffing them in his bag. She’d never notice, and if she did, he’d be long gone. There was no doubt in his mind that she could replace him in her bed in the blink of an eye. He’d held no illusions about what they had, or that she was exclusive to him. Fact was, she got around more than he did. And he had no problem with that. It did make the leaving easier.

Sweet was drugged up enough that it was easy not to disturb her, though a part of him wanted to, just so he could be chased. Oh, how he loved the chase... but, alas, the night called to him. There were other riches to be had. He went out, ran off, and into the graveyard.

Unfortunately, he did find someone to chase him, and it wasn’t the hundred and twenty pound Amber in stiletto heels and fetish gear. No, he had to go and bait a pack of GenCops with their scary guns.

“I’m genuinely scared now!” he yelped as he ran. Seeing an open door about to close, he raced up and slid in. It closed and locked behind him, putting a barrier between him and the police. He caught his breath before taking a look around. He looked to be in a tomb, although it didn’t smell like dead people.

A slab was on the ground. He knelt to read the inscription. Marni Wallace. It didn’t ring any bells, which was unsurprising, given how many of the city’s population was dead. Or dying. Either way. And Flynn didn’t have many connections, sort of a lone wolf. He preferred it that way. It discouraged unpleasant entanglements.

The lady had died young. Too bad. He avoided walking on her grave and went on to the passageway and through. It was spooky, lined with torches, but naturally it didn’t bother him. A rat ran by his feet. “Geh!” He recovered quickly, smoothing his hair back. No one had seen that. Good. Onward!

The passageway spat out into a living room. A pretty nice one, too. Flynn went to the front door, to go on his merry way unbothered by GeneCo security. However. He heard a noise from upstairs, and he went to investigate. There was much to take and turn for profit, but none small enough to carry. Music carried him through the very dark hallway toward a bedroom. It was so dark, in fact, that he could barely see what was in front of him. He tried the door and found it locked. Interest now piqued, he jimmied the lock and opened the door without a sound. The room he found himself in was girly and cluttered and adorable.

A little lady slept in a bed that was too big for her, protected by a plastic canopy. Ruffles went up to her chin and fishnets went down from shoulders to fingers, ornamented by silver rings. Whoever this house and the girl belonged to had to be very moneyed. Flynn was careful not to make a sound as he surveyed for valuables that would fit in his pack. And then he saw it. Very rare. Very beautiful. The bug glowed in the jar, still alive. Rumor had it that the bug itself harvested Zydrate. He had to have it.

He reached for it. There was a shriek.

“Hands off the bug!” screeched the little miss, darting out of bed, pushing past the plastic. He panicked and headed for the door. She chased him in sock-clad feet, picking up her boots on the way out. Long-fingered hands grabbed the back of his shirt. Not wanting to drag her down the stairs, he stopped, fast, slamming the brakes on his heels, and in surprise she slammed to a halt against him and let go. He couldn’t get a good look at her, from that angle, but she felt just tiny. She pushed away, and he turned to face the girl. She was panting, and her nightgown barely covered the essentials, especially with how she was leaning back.

“Give it here,” she demanded, holding out her hand and beckoning with four fingers.

“Sorry, but I gotta run!” He gave a quick and casual salute and ran down the stairs. The girl slid down the banister after him and chased him all the way outside, where she promptly fell to her knees and began hacking up a storm.

He danced from foot to foot in indecision. To run, or to be a gentleman? What would Flynn Rider do? Flynn Rider would help the damsel in distress. Cursing, he went to her. “Hey, you okay?”

“Need my pill,” she gasped. “I can’t—I shouldn’t be outside.”

“Where are your pills,” he said, enunciating carefully. Her eyes were rolling around like marbles. He shook her. “Hey! Your pills. Where are they?”

“Bedroom,” she said weakly, and he hurried off to fetch them. Flynn came back to the girl curled up outside the front door and gave her the pill. Mumbling that she didn’t have water to chase it with, she popped it. After a minute, she sat up, caught her breath. There was a guilty puppy look in her big eyes.

“You weren’t sleeping, you fink!” he realized.

“You’re the fink.” She tugged on her boots and accepted the hand that pulled her to her feet. Then she screamed “Get back here!” when he ran again, and she took chase, across the street, through a backyard or three, into a tomb, where he caught her and pushed her down, purely concerned for her obviously delicate condition.

“What’s so special about this bug?” he asked.

“It glows,” she said, all quiet. “I want it back.”

“No can do. See, I’m in need of some Zydrate...”

Her brow furrowed. “Some what?”

He stared. How sheltered was she? “... Forget it. It’s a drug. It makes you feel good,” he explained slowly, exaggerating his words and expression.

“It’s a narcotic?”

“It’s a painkiller. An expensive one.”

“It—the bug, I mean—completed my collection. It’s everything to me,” she said shyly, getting up and dusting herself off.

“Too bad.” He headed for the exit. Again, she grabbed onto his clothes, which frankly he was getting a little tired of, but he stopped anyway, with a great sigh. “You know what, why don’t you stop following me?”

“I won’t.”

“Fine. Then stop grabbing me! You’re free to follow along, but I am _not_ giving up this bug.” Now it was more from stubbornness than anything else. He had to prove a point and win this battle of wills. He needed to win and get the upper hand, even though he’d all ready gotten it; Flynn had the bug and the muscles to keep it. But, man, was she persistent. “Listen, Gothette...”

“It’s Shilo,” she corrected sullenly.

“Shy-low. What kind of a name is that?”

“My daddy likes it. Speaking of.” Her fingers fumbled together, and her knees shook before the admission. Shy or frightened or both. Maybe her shyness was the inspiration for her ridiculous name. “I called him when I was _pretending_ to be asleep. He’ll beat you up.”

“You may not have noticed, ‘Lo, but we are not in your house. Call away, because he will never find me.” He laughed, AHAHA, like a dramatic villain. He coughed. “In all seriousness, all that will do is alert him that you are not in bed, and it is bedtime for young girls.”

Horror crossed her face, and her hands flew to her heart. “Oh no. I’m not allowed outside.”

“You’ve said that. Metaphor?” he asked.

“What? No! It’s a rule. I can’t... I can’t go outside. Or talk to strangers.” She took a step backwards, wary of him and his intentions, no doubt.

“Well, guess you’d better go on back to your room. Your bug will be safe with me,” he said, and sighed. “Damn, and I was so looking forward to travelling with you.” He put an arm around her shoulders and pushed her toward the exit.

She locked her heels down and shoved him away, anger and fear flitting across her small, mouse-like features. “No! I am not going back without my bug.” Quieter now, she said, “Besides, I’m in trouble regardless. It has to be worth it.” In wonder, she looked around, taking stock of her surroundings. “I’ve never been outside ‘til now.”

“Yes, and growth, new experiences, all that? Great for building character. Now, in return, will you have to make some sacrifices? Sure! Will it decimate the foundation of yours and your father’s relationship? Of course! Is it possible that...”

“Enough with the rhetorical questions,” she sneered. “I am not going back without my bug, and that’s final.”

His shoulders slumped. But that trick _always_ worked. “Fine,” he groaned. “Whatever, you can come along. I guess.”

“R-really? You’ll let me?”

He’d try to pawn her off on the nearest person, granted they didn’t seem liable to harm her... Oh, wait. Perhaps he could scare her into taking flight and retreating back to her nest. Flynn, you sly dog, he congratulated himself. And he knew just the place.

“Yes. Think of me as your guide on this, your first foray into the world!” he said. She smiled.

“Oh, um. If you’re thinking of ditching me, know that you... you can’t,” she said feebly.

“No need for that. I wouldn’t leave you stranded. Do you have any idea where you are?” Flynn asked her, amused.

“N-no.” And she fell quiet as a corpse. He looked around the tomb for valuables, declaring her creepy for watching him so closely, accusing her of violating him and looking at his rear—a claim which she, blushing, meekly denied. The ladies could not resist Flynn Rider. It was physically impossible for him to be ignored by females, or the occasional man. He didn’t blame her. His bag was filled with coins and jewelry. “You’re stealing,” the girl hissed.

“Yes? Good, you can identify basic actions. Now describe in more detail,” he deadpanned.

“That’s wrong. It isn’t yours,” she protested. “Put it back.”

“Lo, I will do no such thing. This is my bread and butter, almost literally.”

“It’s Shilo, okay?? Shilo!” She trotted over and put her hands on her hips, nostrils flaring. A bull about to charge. A short, goth bull, and Flynn was the capable matador, teasing and turning the bull about for her frustration and his fun. He grinned at the image.

“Okay, okay. Shilo. Sheesh, are you a nag.”

“I am not,” she protested.

“Nag, nag, nag,” he teased, leaving the crypt, the girl following, his entourage of one, his tiny anti-fan club.

Twisting, the city streets mangled by corpses elicited disgusted and frightened howls from Shilo. Finding her naivety hilarious, Flynn offered macabre comments aimed at the decidedly unresponsive victims of Repo Men. The girl did not appreciate his attempts at comedy, shooting him glares and hissing that those were _people_ he was talking about, for God’s sake, and to have some respect.

“People die every day. Everyone’s going to lose sometime,” he said, stopping the routine and becoming serious.

 

* * *

 

No longer the teenager of lo those many years ago, the man fast nearing thirty paused in his search of the rarest flower – indeed, a species of flora most agreed extinct, if it had ever existed at all—to gaze at the sudden light, coming from the derelict tower. No movement had come from it for ten years. Not by night, anyway. But now a light came from the window, as if straight from God above, and Graverobber paused in his task, curiosity filling him to the brim. He stole closer. A very young girl sat on the ledge, a curtain of her golden hair falling down her back and into the tower behind her. Her legs dangled, and she was very still, her hands clutching the stones, her expression still, determined, afraid. He came closer to hear what she murmured. In the absolute silence of night, her grim voice carried down with clarity.

“I’m going to do it.” She pushed forward on the ledge some.

“Don’t!” he yelled, surprising himself. “Don’t do it.”

She gasped and nearly fell off right there, managed to steady herself to continue the conversation, it seemed.

“Who _are_ you?” she called down. “And what do you care?”

“If you kill yourself, I’ll have to clean up,” he informed her. “I am Graverobber, at your service.” He gave a low bow and looked up, holding his breath, hoping, waiting. She was holding her breath, too. In the pale moonlight, with lights behind her, she glowed and was beautiful. It was then that he noticed cuts on her arms, fresh ones, deep vertical cuts along each forearm that dripped blood onto her long pink skirt, marring it. He was obsessed at once with the beauty contrasting with her injuries. The red in her round cheeks mirrored that fresh, running blood, and her brilliant green eyes were hollowed with what unknown horrors she’d endured. She wore no makeup and was not pale. He smiled up at her, offering warmth and what comfort he could from way below.

“Very well. Then I will wait until a later time, when you are not there,” she said stiffly, and pushed herself back into her tower, ending the conversation.

Not satisfied with this, Graverobber decided then and there that he would either compel her to join him safely on the ground or he would journey up and talk her down from a future attempt. Looks like that weren’t meant to be wasted.

He would have gone up the traditional way, except the door was locked and barricaded from the inside. How inconvenient! Scratching his scalp, he surveyed the area for another way up. There wasn't much in the way of helpful trees... there was, however, ivy growing up the tower, all the way to the young lady's window. Graverobber was no fool. He tested it first, grabbing handfuls and hoisting himself a few feet off the ground. It held him. The stuff was rooted into the bricks, steadfast and wondrous for his purposes. And there were footholds. Handy.

He began his ascent, a little quicker than he intended due to anxiety. Graverobber did not want to fall on his back from that high up. The security of the ground abandoned him, and there was no going back. Smirking at his fear and casting it aside, he utilized what there was, using the vines and the gaps in the walls to reach the ledge. His arms were strong enough, and soon the ledge was in an arm's reach. How the girl could stand the idea of jumping from this height was beyond Graverobber. He was brave, and even this was a bit much for him.

Grabbing the ledge, he swung himself over and onto the balcony. A handy hook helped him swing in through the window onto the tower floor. For a moment, all he could do was catch his breath, and after, he looked around. The place was sparse aside from the plethora of multi-colored paintings on the walls: animals, spirals, suns, and the girl he'd seen in the window. All were slightly off or downright macabre. The animals were impaled on spikes and bleeding profusely, or devouring each other. The suns were red and boiled the subjects beneath them. The spirals seemed to ooze with pus, and as for the girl? She sported horrible wounds, bled from her eyes, her mouth, her hands, like stigmata, and her eyes were hollows, begging, weeping.

A figure hid in the shadowy underbelly of a desk, with just the whites of the girl’s eyes visible. He approached and stooped with his hands on his knees.

"Hello, little one," he greeted her, and offered her his hand.

She shrank back, arms folded over her chest protectively. "How did you get up here?"

"I climbed." He showed her the red marks on his hands where the vines had dug in. "See?"

Her voice was a whisper. "Why?"

"I wanted to see you. Come on out. You're hurting my knees." He stood up, grumbling. He wasn't as physically capable as he'd once been, and his work was slowly destroying his body. But he didn't care about that at the moment. The girl intrigued him, and he liked intrigue in his women.

She came out of the underside of the desk, and as she drew up and stepped into the light, his mouth dropped open. By God, she was beautiful. Not allowing himself to show more than that moment of being taken aback by the presence of the beauty of this mysterious girl, he smiled and nodded his head once in a kind of bow. "Might I know your name?"

"Rapunzel," she hesitated. "Rapunzel." She seemed like a deer about to bolt. He dearly hoped she wouldn't, especially because his efforts would then be wasted, and he really hated that.

"What a lovely name. Enchanted to make your acquaintance, miss," he said, having decided that she was not exactly little, and that pet name would not work for her, not at all. “I am the Graverobber.”

“Dumb to- to ask what you do for a living?” she asked with a slow, shy smile. “Isn’t that kind of morbid?”

He shrugged and tossed his hair back. “It keeps me on my toes. Gives me perspective. There’s plenty worse ways to make a living.”

“Like what?”

Full of questions, this one. He leered, “You don’t want to know, missy.”

She blinked quite rapidly and dropped what had been behind her back: a frying pan. It hit the wood floor with a resounding clunk, and she looked horrified at the noise. Her head swiveled as she listened hard for some indefinable something that his keen senses could not discern. Then she relaxed, breathed a relieved sigh. “Whew. She’s out cold, I guess,” she muttered. He took a step closer.

“Who?”

“My… my mother.” She gathered up her hair in her arms. He noticed how absurdly, cartoonishly long it was, and thick, and the color of gold and just as beautiful. It wound across the floor until she wound it in her arms in great bundles. He couldn’t imagine how she went around with all that weighing her down; the tug on her scalp alone must have been incredibly uncomfortable. “She put herself to sleep a while ago.”

Oh, how sad. The child of an addict. “Zydrate?” he asked her. After a baffled second followed by recognition, she shook her head. He growled just enough to make her shiver and in a deep voice asked, “Then what?”

“What what?”

“You know very well. What did she use?” he pressed.

She closed her eyes and took a breath to steady herself, breathed out and opened her eyes, her expression tentative, terrified. “Me.” Rapunzel would not answer any more questions, shaking her head, lips tightly pressed. Instead, she got him a cup of hot chocolate and said they probably had until morning before her mother woke up and made him go. “I don’t know what she’d do if she found you here, but it wouldn’t be any good,” she said, sipping at her mug. It burned her tongue and she said “ow ow hot hot!” and remembered to blow on the contents after that. Graverobber grinned. It was odd, being so high up off the ground.

He was glad she hadn’t jumped. This was the best cocoa he’d had in a while, and he said as much. Her red cheeks grew redder, and she mumbled thanks. “You know you’re named after a plant?” he said casually.

“I- I didn’t know that, actually. Mother does call me Flower. When she’s angry or when she’s comforting. It’s her little name for me.”

“Well, Rapunzel, you’ll be pleased to learn that your particular breed of flower is exceptionally rare. Near about extinct, or so I’m told. In fact, when I’m not harvesting and selling Z, I spend my time in the world’s backyard—yours in particular—seeking this precious flower.” He had stumbled on something far more interesting, however, and he smiled at his discovery. When she reached up on a high cabinet for the fluffy marshmallows to pack into her cocoa, he admired her hips and those long legs. She was a little like a horse or donkey, but much more attractive. Gazelle would be a more appropriate comparison.

“What’s so special about this flower that you’ll go looking for it all the time?” she asked, taking her seat across from him again. Her fingertips danced across the surface of the marshmallows, pushing them down into the chocolate. The whites melted and swirled.

“Not all the time,” he refuted, though he’d been searching, off and on, for a decade. “They say it’s the bud of eternal youth and beauty.”

“And that’s my namesake? Huh.” She looked a little pleased, and what girl wouldn’t be? The mother had the right idea.

“So they say. Rumors can be wrong.” He cleared his throat, looked left and right, and leaned closer to her. “Why were you going to do it?”

“It?”

“Jump.” He jerked his head toward the window. “Seems a long way down.”

“It… it is.” She bit her lip. “Oh my gosh. I… this was a mistake. It’s bad to entertain guests without Mother’s say-so. Please- please go.” She stood up and pointed to the window emphatically.

“Rapunzel, I climbed all the way up here to talk to you, help you if I could. I am not climbing down.” It was enough of a pain getting up. He stood up and shoved the chair aside, lowering his face to hers. “You can trust me. Got it?”

Timidly, she nodded. “Okay.”

“Now. We’re going to have a little chat and iron this whole thing out,” he said, but the girl had other ideas. She went to the window.

“You know… I’ve always wanted to go outside. I was too scared to go without a guide.” Hopefully, she smiled at him. “You’d be a good guide, I think. You’re very scary, anyway, so I wouldn’t have to worry about ruffians and thugs.”

“I _am_ a ruffian,” he laughed.

“Oh. But you’re a nice one! Besides, I wanted to leave home,” and it trailed off into incomprehensible muttering.

“Speak up, miss. Can’t hardly understand,” he gently prompted.

“Death seemed like a good way to leave. Guess that’s pretty silly,” she mumbled, sheepish and unbearably sweet. She looked down at her bare feet.

His finger lifted up her chin, and he said, “Nothing stupid about it. What are you escaping from?”

She seemed about to crack, her large green eyes widening and expressing an open, unpolished pain. Then she broke away, pushing his arm aside. “Can we leave now?”

He eyed her. She didn’t look strong enough to make the descent, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to carry her. “How are we going to do that? We’re a long ways up.”

Leaning out the window in spite of his protests, she took a loop of her hair and wrapped it around the hook, knotting tight. “I do this for Mother,” she explained. “Always wanted to try it!”

Hollering with glee, she let go, and swung quickly down to the ground, then stopped, hovering a few inches off the ground, letting go slowly. Her soles touched the ground. “Come on. It’s secure,” she called up to him, using her hands as a megaphone. “Take it and swing, then we’ll unhook it!”

He heard a rustle behind him. Hurrying, he went to the hook, gathered a loose loop in his hands and hoping it wouldn’t hurt her. But no, she stood at the bottom with her hair gathered in her arms, and he let go, dropping down to the grass and the brambles. He put an arm around her to give her the leverage needed to unhook her hair from the top of the tower.

She said, “I’m free.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Nathan said goodbye to his last patient, a pregnant teenager, and hoped to God that Shilo would never find herself in such a predicament. He shook his head and chuckled a little; what nonsense, where would she even meet a man? Other than himself, of course, and he didn’t count. When the time came to introduce Shilo to the world – and, as she grew older, he sensed that time was rapidly approaching—he would teach her the ways of men, and to stay away from them. The problem with young women these days was a lack of parental supervision and instruction; the problem was that children could not be left to their own devices. Shilo was certainly no exception.

Goodbye to his secretary, sent a message to his boss, Mr Largo, and into his car, through the dead streets to the warm embrace of his home, where his hidden child waited, nestled safe and sound in Marni’s old bed.

Out of habit, he checked his phone. A message from an hour ago, from his own Shilo; strange. He played it back as he hung up his coat and keys and heard silence, then footsteps and a rattling within the lock. She cursed softly and hung up, leaving him listening to static. He felt a hand grip his foolish heart.

And as he wandered up the stairs, each increasingly desperate call of her name (“Shilo, please answer me!”) returning only awful silence, his thoughts berated him: How could he have left his darling girl alone?

What relief he felt to find her door closed. Perhaps it had been a dreadful mistake, after all. Nothing to worry about, old man, no reason to fear her improbable departure. Nathan sighed, gritted his teeth, and fitted the key that generally resided in his pocket to the lock to twist and grant him entrance.

The room was cold and dark, the window flung open, the wind sending shivers through his unprepared body. A cursory glance informed him that she was in bed where she belonged, and he chuckled that she’d fallen asleep with the window open. He’d berate her for it later and lie, tell her that the outside air could damage her. On his way there:

“Nathan?”

He whirled. Marni—no, it was not his beautiful Marni who emerged from the bed to saunter on black booted heels toward him. The woman standing before him had not aged by one wrinkle or spot in the ten years since they had parted ways, and so in horror he recoiled from Eleanor Gothel.

“Where…”

He ripped aside the curtains on the window, the curtains on the bed.

Shilo was gone.

Gothel tutted when the father continued his search, growing more frantic, tossing aside stuffed animals, throwing back blankets and pillows. “Uh-uh, I’m afraid you won’t find her here, Doctor.”

All of his terror transformed into rage in that instant. There was a white hot blaze behind his spectacles, a pounding inside his skull that drowned out all other noise and thought and sensibility, that she could not have done this, that she had no reason. No room for caring for this fellow human, he turned on her, breathing hard.

Nathan snarled “Where is she??” and, driving her down onto the bed with frightening force, and slammed his strong arm against her throat. He knelt over her. “You tell me where she is!” he growled at the woman choking and gasping beneath him. Despite the conditions in which she found herself, she managed to undulate enticingly beneath his weight. He focused on the pulsing in her neck, on how satisfying it was to watch her struggle for air. Oh, how easy it would be to press harder and watch her eyes froth white and roll back in her head. How long would he have to hold her roughly here before she lost consciousness and became a doll helpless to his merciless whims?

It occurred to him that she was writhing, but not struggling. Struggling for air, yes, yet not for her freedom. Doubt crept in, uninvited. Peaceful from the lack of oxygen, her lovely face resembled Marni’s in the throes of death, stealing the malice from her spirit, taking everything and feeding something to him in return. In a moment, he was reliving Marni’s final moments as she choked on her own blood and he retrieved Shilo from her womb.

Shocked, he stumbled backwards and off of the strangling soul. That had been too close to him making a mistake. Gothel’s hand flew to her neck and she coughed and sputtered, wheezing in air. A bit overdone, he thought wryly, before his thoughts flew back to the little bird that had fallen from her protective cage.

Turning, he strode from her bedroom, calling for her, not waiting for an answer. Her name rang through the hallway and down the stairs along with him. He stood in the foyer and looked helplessly around and shouted, “Shilo!”

No answer.

It would do no good to panic again. That would lead to error. Perhaps if he retraced his steps… no, that did not even make any sense. Shilo was not an object, she was a person; how did one misplace a person, especially one so weak and fragile?

He’d found the door locked, the window open…

Nathan returned to Shilo’s room, intent on detaining Gothel, apologizing, and extracting information from her smug lips. Instead, he found an empty room, an open window, and a still warm place on the bed.  


* * *

   
“Now, don’t be shy. Or afraid. Never, ever show fear. These people will mug you blind,” Flynn warned her.

“What does that even mean? That’s ‘rob you blind,’ you peabrain,” she glowered.

He smirked. Oh, this was going to be _so_ good. She’d go running for the hills, lickety-split. “It means be careful. You don’t have any money on you, do you? No? Great!” He grinned in the face of her eye-rolling scowl.

“Why are we doing this?”

“I need money to put us up for the night. Unless…” He glanced sideways at her as they walked the streets, as he counted the streets quietly to himself.

“Unless what?”

“Unless you’d rather sleep in a tomb. They can be pretty drafty. Now, I speak from experience here, the dead are not great company, but they’ll do in a pinch.”

“Ugh… You’re revolting.”

“I take that as a compliment. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight—STOP!” He threw his arm out, catching her squarely in the chest and, he suspected, knocking the breath from her little lungs. She glared at him fiercely, but what did it matter? They were there: the alleyway, the black-bricked one that led through a sideways entrance into a cozy, smoke-filled and poorly lit den of zaddicts. Garbage strewn across the dirty concrete, posters fluttering on the walls, and a slot over the door he confidently strode up to and knocked on.

“Password?” a gruff voice said.

“Knock it off, it’s me,” Flynn replied with a laugh.

The door swung open and the music died with a shouted “SHUT IT!” In silence, Flynn entered the place. Shilo hovered out in the alleyway. He looked over his shoulder.

“I think I’ll wait out here,” she said nervously.

“Be my guest. Have fun getting mugged,” he said nonchalantly.

He let the door close with a creak and a click.

She stood there. A rat squeaked by a dumpster; Shilo shrieked and dashed forward, opened the door and then she was over the threshold, clinging to Flynn’s arm. His amused eyes met hers, but he kept his smile in check for their present company.

These were no ordinary zaddicts. They had lost everything, all home and dignity and even family, and come out the other side stronger and stranger, barely recognizable as human with their replaced, stretched faces and their unnatural proportions. Travelers, they kept a loose base of operations in this guarded building while sending out scavengers for new resources and new information on new procedures. Their power was growing in the underbelly of the city. And meanwhile, the folk whispered and fornicated and watched the news with bared eyeballs. Here, picking at her ear dumbly in the corner, a noseless woman with enormous lips; there, his mouth to a girl’s unclothed shoulder, a man with a forked tongue and an awful shine to his reptilian orange eyes. And the further the pair ventured into the room, the closer and more frightening and tighter knit grew the crowd. Shilo would not let go of the arm that kept her grounded, kept her from panicking, kept her from breath from stopping short.

“Hey, dolls, it’s Flynn Rider.”

An old woman with red ringlets and drooping earlobes approached through a crowd that parted majestically (majestically, at least, considering the sorry quality of the people that made up the scene) before her. She grinned bright.

“Monsieur, what can we travelers do for you?”

“For me? Uh, yes!” And he indicated the girl clinging to his side, cheekily saying, “My wife and I are looking for a place to spend our honeymoon. A lovely night under the moon with authorities after us didn’t seem like it would quite get her engine running. _If you know what I mean by that_ ,” he said in a hushed aside against the side of his hammy hand.

“But of course!” she crooned. “Let’s see, two individuals, one room…”

“Married,” he interjected helpfully; Shilo had let go of his arm and backed a pace from him, hands clapped to her open, horrified mouth. So let her worry. Were he a monster, he could pressure her, but he was not. If she couldn’t read his ruse, it wasn’t his problem. “She’s a little shy.”

“The Albatross Motel should do. You know where that is?”

“No kidding, you guys own that shack-up joint? Nice going!” he said. He shoved his hand in his pocket, digging about for a wallet that wasn’t even there. “So, what do I owe ya?”

“Owe us? Why, Flynn, you never repaid your debt from the last time… That tip-off about Amber Sweet,” she tsk-tsked, shaking her head.

“Oh, that!” He forced a laugh. “I could’ve found her on my own, of course, but you said you had the dirt, and boy did you ever. Let’s let bygones be bygones, what do you say?”

With surprising speed, the woman grabbed Shilo and held a knife to her throat. “I don’t think that will be quite enough,” she growled.

“Whoa there. Let’s not be hasty,” Flynn said, holding up his hands. “I’ll pay you and we can all act like reasonable people.” He was panicking… he was _caring_.

“You know, I had a son your age once. Of course, I traded him for some magic beans,” she hissed to Shilo. “Oh, I can’t hurt you, even for his sake.” To Flynn, she snapped, “Be quick, boy” and let Shilo go, pushing her in his direction.

Instinctively, he caught her to his chest. She recovered from the shock there, her chest heaving, each breath a little more painful, and she could still feel the sharp metal on her skin. Like a little rabbit, she was afraid and wanted to run. All she could do was hold him, shameful and strange as it was. He seemed to sense her panic and rubbed one hand over her back, saying “shh, shh.” To the woman he said, “Here.” She felt him reach with one arm into his pocket and she panicked; he was going to sell her bug! How could he?

Instead she heard the jingle of coins. Her heart lightened and took off on wings. “I’ll deposit the rest of your money tomorrow morning, after we rest,” he informed the woman. “But you will get what’s coming to you.”

“Spit on what I’m owed if that makes you feel better, love,” she cackled. “Have a good night, lovebirds.”

“Come on, ‘Lo. Let’s get out of here,” he said, taking her hand. She found the courage and the disdain to slap it off and walk ahead of him out the door.

It took them half an hour’s walk to reach the slummy motel. Flynn made her wait outside the office while he talked to the nice man with the cigar hanging out of his big mouth. He left in rather a hurry, grabbing her shoulder and pointing her towards a room downstairs with an open door.

“Care to check it out first or must I?” Flynn inquired.

“You’re such a baby,” Shilo said, though her voice trembled, and she ventured forth and into the room.

Inside were sparse furnishings: television on the wall, a table and chairs in the corner, a bathroom with shower, not tub, closet near the door, and one bed. She stood at the foot of it, staring at it with quiet dread. One bed.

“Don’t even think about trying to get into that bed, princess. I paid for this room and you’re here as a kindness; you get the cot,” Flynn told her, pointing at the closet.

Shilo wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or angry or both, but she went to the closet full of wire hangers and no clothes, retrieved the folded-up cot, and set it up on the stained blue carpet. It would be just barely big enough for her. She sighed; oh well, it could always be worse.  


* * *

  
“So, what do you think?”

“What is this stuff called? It’s delicious!”

“That is a hot dog.”

“Oh goodness, I’m eating dog?!” the girl shrieked and startled, and looked as if she might shortly be sick. Graverobber laughed, stepping back to avoid doing so in her face; he’d been standing very close, after all.

“It’s the mashed up scraps of a cow. They just call it a hot dog,” he explained to her, and her expression calmed into one of mild confusion.

This was followed by a five minute discussion on the strange names of food and the contents therein. Most of them she’d never heard of, for the outside world was new to her, and the whole day long had been spent in wide-eyed wonder on her part, while he yawned and tried very hard not to stumble, for he was not used to being up and awake while the smoggy sun was above the horizon.

And yet, that was what they had done the whole day long, was wander, him steering her about the city

He leered at her when she opened her mouth to slide in the hot dog. She paused the progression with mustard on her chin and asked, smiling, “What?” And a bit more worriedly when he did not immediately fix his expression: “What? Is there something on my face?” Graverobber made himself angelic.

“Nothing, my dear, nothing. I was just…” He contemplated if he dared chance that she would understand innuendo. The girl seemed terribly innocent… and terribly young, but that hadn’t stopped him before, with others.

“What?”

She stuck the remainder in her mouth, letting it poke her cheek and fill it ‘till she chewed, whence she resembled an attractive hamster. All of her expressions had come out animated and alive the further they’d gone from the tower at the edge of town. It was remarkable how she had gone from being demure and twitchily afraid of everything besides him—when, really, everyone was afraid of him, and she had no reason to take exception with that common sense rule—to skipping and pointing and laughing and breathing in the air with such gusto as he’d never seen in a citizen of their dreary town.

And, naturally, he had to corrupt that.

“Don’t you realize what a lovely sight you make, dear, when you stuff your gob?” he teased.

And, naturally, he couldn’t do it. Not yet.

It was then that Rapunzel acted quite strange. Stranger than before, anyway: she froze, then darted behind him, holding onto his arms, fingers digging in. “Don’t move,” she hissed in his ear. She was uncommonly tall for her age and gender, he just noticed, not that it detracted from her air of spritely, porcelain delicateness.

“Wasn’t gonna,” he hissed back. “What’s wrong?”

“See that woman? No, don’t look, don’t look, don’t let her see you!” she bade him, fear riddling her voice and rendering it squeaky and unfamiliar. His sight found a woman with curly black hair and swaying, generous hips... and really, she was generous all over, in a really good way. The girl had never been outside, so the woman could only be the mother he’d heard so precious little about.

From where they stood in the middle of the festively green park, there was a scarcity of hiding places, but he couldn’t very well hand the girl back over to her captor. So he did the only thing he could think of: he turned around, looked Rapunzel dead in the eye, mouthed “I’m sorry,” and picked her up, walking behind a fence and sitting down, still holding her. He realized what he was doing and let go of her, even if she was warm and pleasantly squishy. Unlike the rigid corpses he was used to. She held the pointed tops of the fence and drew herself up to peer over the top, then as quickly slunk down and hid.

“What is she doing here?” she said to herself. “Is she looking for me? She can’t have noticed that I’m gone yet, not yet…”

The woman looked their way.

Graverobber clapped a hand over the girl’s mouth and felt her continued mumblings in the form of hot breaths and quick motions. Her tongue flickered over his palm like a beating wing. He closed his eyes and attempted not to connect the sensations with his sick thoughts, in particular the thoughts of her mouth elsewhere. Lord, he was weak for this girl. He sternly reminded himself that this was no time for sexual shenanigans; she was at the mercy of the world, inexperienced in every conceivable way, and needed his help badly.

He would be only too happy to assist, even though there was nothing he could ask for in return. She had no money, nothing to give.

The woman sniffed, said something about how she must be hearing things, and sauntered on her merry way.

They both let out a breath. He dropped his hand, wiping it on his jeans.

“That was a close one,” she said, and threw her arms around his neck.  


* * *

   
As Gothel strolled the emptying streets (they emptied as the area darkened), she contemplated whether she’d done the right thing in leaving Nathan to be consumed by his overwhelming grief; a thought she hurriedly dismissed. What a strange and silly and, well, intriguing man he was proving to be. His emotions were right on his flowery sleeves no matter how hard he tried to hide it, for good and for ill. It had taken her no time at all to unmask him, but once their acquaintanceship had been severed and her daughter’s health secured, there had been no reason for her to stalk him. He had seen fit to keep his distance and nurse his daughter in sullen separation from the world. That much she knew. And if it at all hurt her pride that he had not even once gone after her and simply let her slip through his fingers, she would certainly never admit it.

Unbeknownst to her, some higher power was watching, stalking along the abandoned freeway overpass as she meandered beneath, presumably to seek shelter from the rain that began to fall. No, not any deity that she didn’t believe in anyway. This figure was masked and impossible to deny.

The masked man swooped down, leather cloak rushing to brush the wet ground. He towered over her all garbed in black, an imperious figure, a Repo Man, doctor’s bag in one hand, the other free to do what it would: grab at her throat and guide her to the wall. Adrenaline pulsed in her veins along with a good dose of manageable fear. After years of evasion, years of hiding and lying, GeneCo and one of its debt doctors had her at last. She made no attempt to resist; if this was her time to die, at least she would die young, before her dear, sweet Flower’s gift could wear off. At least, as it was said, she would leave a good-looking corpse.

That is, she thought as much until she met and recognized the eyes. Intense, yes, and on the wrong side of insane… but, when she searched them, she recognized his beautiful weakness. It was, in fact, exquisite, and her salvation.

“Hello, Nathan,” she murmured.

His intention had only been to find her. She understood that now. But had he meant to go so far as to physically press and threaten her life? No, that could only be his training taking over, and the mode switched off, and he stood there limp and safe.

Eleanor reached up and around, unclasping the mad doctor’s helmet, and lifted it up, tossing it aside with a clunk.

“I’m so sorry, I should never have,” he began to apologize.

“Shh,” she said, placing a finger to his lips.

And so it was that Repo Man observed them from where the helmet had fallen on the ground as she wound herself closer and kissed him, safe from the rain, safe from the knife, safe in his arms. No almosts or might-have-beens truly mattered. All that did was that they were in this pursuit together.  


* * *

   
Shilo sat in a chair by the window, gazing gloomily out at the rain while Flynn watched the television for news of – what else?—himself and counted out the remainder of his money. The girl turned around, curious.

“Why’d you do it?” she asked.

“Do what?” he said.

“Keep my bug. That’d have paid off your debts, wouldn’t it?”

“Don’t tempt me, doll. I could still go back and get my money back.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t. You got me. What is wrong with me? It would have been so easy. It’s right in my pack, I could’ve… I fully intended to!”

“You’re a softie, you terrible man you,” she said, getting up from her chair.

He smiled at her faintly, a smile that dropped off when she approached. Something came over her and she didn’t know what, but something new. She bent and pecked his cheek. He stared at her in bewilderment and raised a hand to his cheek as if she’d slapped him. Shilo felt herself glow warm inside.

“What was that?”

“Don’t get any smart ideas,” she started, but suddenly she began to feel a little green.

Her stomach writhed and coiled like a serpent. It compelled her to dash, push open the bathroom door, drop to her knees, and vomit her little heart out. After a minute of being mercifully left alone, the noises and splatters stopped, and Flynn stepped in to check on her, though he looked uneasy and as embarrassed as she felt.

“You okay?”

“I’m… I’m sick,” she said pathetically, using toilet tissue to wipe vomit off her face. It was bad enough when her own father saw her this way, let alone a near stranger. “I… have a blood disease.”

“Oh. Oh no. Your medicine?”

She nodded. “It’s all back at the house. I hadn’t thought about it, but I need it or I’ll keep having episodes: not being able to breathe, or seizures, or getting sick like this.”

“Here, let me help you.” For she trembled as she stood. “It’ll be okay. I’ll figure something out.”

“You don’t have to,” she wheezed, her throat hoarse from retching. In spite of her protestations, he insisted on assisting her to the bed. “But I thought it was yours.”

“Hey, you’re sick. It’s okay.” He pulled off her shoes even though, really, she could do it herself, she wasn’t exactly incapacitated. But then a bout of coughing took her and he used the lull in her talking to slip her under the covers. She snuggled down. “If you touch something wet, don’t look at what it is.” He turned the TV off and went to the radiator. “Mind if I turn this on?”

She shook her head. He fiddled with the device and hot air slowly sighed into the room, creating a coziness that stood up well against the rain.

“Hey, it’s Flynn, isn’t it?” she hesitantly piped up. He spun about.

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“You can sit on the bed with me, if you like.”

Awe in his face and reluctance in his steps. It was as if he didn’t trust himself. More likely he didn’t trust her, after the stunt she pulled kissing him. What had gotten into her? That had been immature and irresponsible, and it would be best to just forget it.

“Thanks.”

He added his weight to the cheap mattress. It creaked.

“About that kiss earlier…”

“I’d really rather not talk about it,” she cut him off.

“Understood. So tell me something, ‘Lo…”

“Anything.”

“What happens, say, if we don’t get your medicine?” he asked seriously.

“I die.”

“Oh.”

There wasn’t much to say after that; he turned the TV back on and he sat at the foot of the bed. She asked for the remote. He passed it to her. She put on Blind Mag’s performance and then the weather channel, when the hour grew later. Shilo explained to him that it helped her sleep. Somehow or other, he ended up lying down, without really intending to, she knew, and she put her hand on his hair, playing with it while she watched TV.

Outside, the rain fell and fell.

 


	5. Chapter 5

“It's settled, then,” Nathan sighed, retrieving his trusty helmet and tucking it under his arm. “We'll search for them together.”

“Yes, dear, I'll keep you from murdering half the city and you'll offer me your... resources. As a GeneCo employee you must have access to all manner of security clearances.” Drawing up the hood of her cloak to shield her hair from the rain, Nathan saw a glimpse of quickly concealed concern. Not for her daughter, he knew that much. Gothel had no love for anyone in her cruel heart. He had done what was best for himself by cutting her out of his life ten years before. He knew that.

Why, then, was he filled with regret, and why was he smiling like a fool since they had kissed with the rain falling? It was wrong of him to enjoy even breathing the polluted air with Shilo outside, alone, helpless, and without her medication.

“Yes,” he said. His head was splitting. It felt like Repo Man was trying to devour his brain from the inside. The monster insisted that he draw his blade and seek out Shilo, forget about Flower and leave Gothel bleeding. The father refused and took a shaky breath to hold himself together. He only hoped it would last long enough for them to secure the location of their children. “You've... just replenished yourself, haven't you.” With a smile, she nodded, lolling her head back to show her supple young cleavage. “Then Shilo takes priority. She's very ill. Her medication when she...”

“When she ran away, darling, I'm sure she's alright,” Gothel quipped.

“She wouldn't run away. She was taken from her home.”

Nevermind that there was no sign of a struggle. Nevermind that nothing else had been taken save the one person he cared about in this world, the one person that mattered. It was unfathomable that she would leave him after the scares they had experienced together, when she had pocketed, cheeked, or otherwise hidden her pills and ended up suffering on the floor. She had sworn to him she would faithfully follow his prescriptions. He shuddered to think of her withdrawing without a doctor's care.

“Are you done thinking whatever it is you could possibly be thinking in that dysfunctional grey head of yours?” she asked him. “Are you ready to man up and help save our children from themselves?” Her hands were on her hips, her chin lifted haughtily. She would not take his refusal well.

He was resolved. “Come with me,” he told her, slipping his mask back on his head and clicking it into place. Quickly, they went to the nearest security posting, shooed away the fattened security guard with a wave of Repo Man's scalpel, and Gothel hurried to the computer screens that covered the wall. She couldn't seem to make heads or tails of it, and he paused on how old she really was beneath her physical appearance. Her home was old, styled as if from generations ago, and she wore no communicator. Not to mention she dressed like she was going to the opera... but every day. “Move,” Repo Man growled, shoving her bodily aside. She stumbled for a moment.

With deft keystrokes, he pulled up a view of his home. Of course Rotti would keep a close eye on him. He had to know Nathan was... not always himself. Nathan wasn't fool enough to think there was any fondness left between him and the man who wrote his checks. There was Shilo, chasing after a man in nothing but her nightdress. His hand curled into a fist and he leaned it on the table, his jaw similarly clenched. Shilo had kept someone a secret from him. His hours at work were long but he was diligent in checking on her each night between his two jobs, and he monitored her through their communicators. Somehow an entire man had slipped his notice. Nathan was a fool.

“Ah, so it's love,” Gothel murmured, watching Shilo drop to her knees before the front door, watched the man stop and regard her with concern, then retrieve her medicine from the house. Only one pill. He ought to have grabbed more. Nathan suddenly felt angry tears in his eyes. He didn't know who deserved his anger most.

Placing his ire on Gothel, he snapped at her, “She's too young to be in love. Don't be ridiculous.”

She smirked at him. “Would you rather it be lust, Doctor?”

He did not dignify that with a response.

It would take time to track Shilo and this man's location from the cameras. He'd never thought to install GPS on her communicator; now he cursed his lack of foresight. Yes, it would take time, and Shilo did not have time.  
  


* * *

  
Flynn jerked awake to find Shilo was not in bed. He was on his stomach, his legs curled up, a sheet thoughtfully dragged over him. From inside the bathroom came echoing crying sounds. His stomach sank and he pushed himself to his feet, pushed open the bathroom door to investigate the tears. The young lady sat on the edge of the toilet, wrapped in a towel with... with no hair. What had proved to be her wig was carefully arranged on the counter, and beads of water still dotted her face. No, it wasn't water. It was sweat. She was flushed and shivering and crying and bald as an egg. What a combination.

“Shilo, hey, hey,” he said, hurrying to her side and crushing his shock at her baldness. “Don't cry, 'Lo.”

“I won't go back,” she told him. Her face was streaked with running black eyeliner. “I'm tired of... of being a specimen.”

“You're _dying_ ,” he said, aghast. “I'll take medicated and alive over homeless and dead.”

She shook her head adamantly, coughing. “You don't understand. I've never... never been outside. I've never spoken to a man. I've never had a friend. It's so lonely, it's so fucking lonely. I'd rather die than go back, Flynn.”

He knew what Flynn Rider would do.

“I'm not Flynn,” he told her. “And you're not going to die.”

They left the motel and went in silence back to the zaddict den, where he left her. He left her in safe hands – those of older women who had lost children and cooed and nearly pissed themselves at the sight of a sick and frail young girl, clamoring in around her to offer blankets and juice– he was sure of it, and then he retraced his steps through the city, keeping his head down. For once, he didn't want to get into any shenanigans. The last thing he needed was a police pursuit or, forbid the thought, an arrest. Shilo needed his help. The dead bug was still with him, a reminder with each slap of its weight into his side that this was all his fault a girl was dying. It shouldn't have bothered him. She was nothing to him, practically a stranger, and people died. That was life. Everyone he had ever grown to care about had left him or died. He'd just met her, for Pete's sake.

Shilo was the first person who had ever relied on him. It made every step heavy. She might die while he was gone. She might...

He was getting closer to her home. If what she'd said to him on the way to the den was true, her father would be out looking for her, or not aware she was gone and working. The man was a regular workaholic if he still didn't notice her missing. Even a little thing like her was hard to misplace. It would be safe to break back into the home and retrieve her pills from her room. He whistled to himself to keep from getting nervous. Not that Flynnigan Rider was ever nervous.

Eugene might be. Sometimes, when no one was around.

As he slipped into the Wallace home, he thought of how he had fallen asleep with the ill girl's hand in his hair. The presence of her hand was a simple thing, a warm reminder that he wasn't alone in the bed. It had been better sleep than he'd had in a long time. He hadn't felt alone even when he'd woken up without her next to him.

Up the stairs he hurried, and there were her pills on a medical cart. They were small, seemingly inconsequential, but they would make all the difference in the world to her if he could get back in time. Depositing the bottle into his messenger bag, nestled up next to Shilo's dead, preserved glow bug. There was no time to look around, no matter how curious he was. As it was, he couldn't get back to her fast enough. Neither could he run, not by the light of day when ordinary folk were meandering about, living out their lives not knowing a girl's life hung in the balance, depended on his very footsteps. He counted the streets, the alleys, and flung himself into the Zydrate den.

Shilo was propped up on a pillow and a dirty mattress, shivering and sweating under a blanket. It was Flynn who slid on his knees to her, tearing open the bottle's cap and dumping out, somehow, one lone pill. “Take it, take it,” he urged her, and she opened her mouth. Without a pause to think about it, he clapped his sweating palm over her lips and dropped the drug down the hatch. She swallowed hard without water, shut her eyes.

He sat back on his heels and held his breath, watching her breaths rise and fall. Then she blinked and the danger had passed. Her communicator, that infernal beeping device for which she had long since shut off incoming calls, was at last blessedly silent. He laughed, more relieved than he could say, and swooped in to gather her up in his arms in an enfolding embrace. The blanket fell away between them and she hugged him back. Her body was pressed to his body. He felt the rise and fall of her breaths.

“Thanks,” she said sheepishly, pushing him off of her and then adding one more shove, albeit a light and playful one.

The zaddict den mothers, all gathered around and watching, burst into arrhythmic applause and offered Flynn a drink. “No thanks, ladies,” he said with his smoldering grin fixed on no one in particular. He turned back to Shilo, who was grinning for reasons that should have been beyond him. He nudged her. “Well, 'Lo, what do you say? Want to stick around?”

Her eyes were wide. “With you?”

“Sure. Any more capers you want me to go on? No? Well, I like you. Here's your bug.” Whilst everyone was busy pouring drinks and changing bandages, he handed back her bug. She shook her head and pushed it back into his hands. “Don't you want it?”

“I don't need it. My collection's back at the house, and I am done with that place. My dad can stay with the dead. Including my bugs.” With a brave sniff, she adjusted her wig. He hated to break it to her, so he didn't, but the world was mostly dead these days. “I'd like to stick around, since you offered.”

At the very least until the next Zydrate Support Network meeting, the den mothers argued that much. There would be lemonade and donuts and whiskey. As if on cue at the mere mention of food, Shilo's stomach growled, and the old women laughed like it was funny.

“Oh, yeah, ZSN meetings are a blast,” Flynn agreed. “Everyone gets wasted, graverobbers crash the party. You'll love it.”

Shilo wrinkled her nose at the thought, obviously unsure about the whole thing. Figuring he knew just the trick to calm her, he settled an arm familiarly around her shoulders. She rested her head to his side and smiled.

Worked like a charm, and that charm of his worked every time. He couldn't wait to see how she reacted to his infamous smolder.  
  


* * *

  
“In here,” Graverobber said, ushering Rapunzel into the tomb. It was a nice one, if a bit chilly. Hardly smelled at all. Maybe he was just used to the stench of decay and lingering formaldehyde. Still, it was nice. Someone clearly came in every so often to fumigate and lay dying, fragrant flowers. He cleared aside a bench of its flowers and dust with a sweep of his coat sleeve for her to sit on, then turned his back on her to open up the caskets and get to work with his trusty extractor. Rapunzel was just about the only person he'd ever met who he'd willingly give his back. “This is what I do for a living.”

Truthfully, he had been distracted by her. Traipsing around the city, introducing her to new things. It wasn't like him, not at all. Now entirely immersed in his element, he almost forgot she was there once she had settled deep into the shadows and watched him in silence.

“Er... what do you do?” she asked.

He smiled to himself, depressing the needle up through the nasal cavity into what remained of brain tissue. The squish was satisfying, popping the pimple of the mind. “I rob graves, princess. These heads contain more than skulls. Within their rot lies the cure of all humanity: Zydrate. Zydrate eases pain and summons bliss for those foolish enough to go under the knife. In this day and age, we are all fools.”

“That's disgusting!” she said. He glanced over his shoulder at her to find her peering at his actions, wide-eyed and fascinated. Her knuckles were a clenched white. All of her was ghostly grey in the light, looking little different than the corpse at his feet other than her animation and expression. Slowly, he withdrew the precious glow into the body of the syringe and tucked it into his belt, then rose to his full height and considered her. They'd spent the entire day traipsing around together, pretending they weren't strangers to each other, pretending they hadn't met under upsetting circumstances.

“Your arms,” he said, taking her hand in his dirt-dusted fingers and turning it with the palm to the domed ceiling, so he could look at the forming scabs on her wrists. “You cut yourself, didn't you.”

“No!” she said adamantly. “No, I didn't.”

“Then who...” Even as he said the words, the gears in his head turned and whirred. Understanding dawned, horrible as could be. “Your mother.”

Tears blinked into her green eyes. Hypnotic and preternaturally large, dusted with light brown lashes that did not match the gold crown of hair on her head, they shone in the dim like a nightlight. He did not let go of her hand. On the contrary, his grip tightened until she winced.

“I couldn't take it anymore,” she burst.

He shook his head. Graverobber had suffered disagreements with his own parents, God rest their souls, and while his qualms with them had been their preaching of dogma and ritual, this was a whole other animal of abuse. To destroy the spirit of one so young to make her want to fall from a tall tower and land broken and bloody among brambles... “Tell me. Tell me why,” he urged her.

Rapunzel withdrew her hands from him and lowered her sleeves. “Promise me that you won't hurt me if I tell you.”

It was impossible for him not to chuckle at the thought of hurting her when he had gone to such lengths, already, to protect her. The image of the black-haired, cloaked woman cutting into her daughter's arms boiled in his mind's eye, turning his blood white hot and blurring his vision. “Promise,” he said, holding up one dainty pinky. She briefly linked their pinkies; they bobbed their hands once in agreement.

The girl did something most peculiar then, wrapping her long hair around her arm. Her hair, through their wanderings, was always carried over her shoulder and looped loose around at least one arm to keep from trailing on the ground behind her. Now she wound it carefully around the areas bearing wounds fresh from the morning, and it was only that night. She raised her eyes to his and his knees weakened. Softly, she sang. Her sad voice trembled in the air, filling the musty air of the tomb, bringing it to life, lending it light. And then there really was light, emanating from her. Before his eyes, her hair glowed, brighter than any bug or neon sign. It was starlight underground.

When it had faded, and her voice trailed off, mouth still hanging open, she unwound the sleek coils of hair and raised her sleeve to show perfect, pink skin, not a mark on her. She peeked up at him for his response.

The mother used her for her own means, that much was apparent. The rest needed a story to be told. As a small child, Rapunzel explained with him kneeling at her feet and listening with their pinkies linked, it had been enough to prick her finger and spill only a dot of blood, cause only a moment of pain. The more she grew, the more blood needed to be shed, the more pain Gothel had needed to inflict on her for the same results: the glow. Gothel was willing to make as many sacrifices of her daughter as were necessary for her to remain young, beautiful, and hale.

“Bitch,” Graverobber muttered.

“I couldn't take it anymore,” she echoed.

Tears were nothing new to him. Women employed them to escape debts, to escape his coldest tones or to pry something from him. One tear from Rapunzel, trailing down the side of her nose, and he was broken. The one thing he could think to do was cup her face in one hand and brush his thumb over the tear's path, succeeding only in smearing gravedirt on what had been an unblemished surface. Her sob hiccuped and soared and multiplied. Desperate to stop the sound and stem the flow, he did the only thing he could think of and kissed her.

It did the trick.

Rapunzel had ceased her senseless crying. Instead she was touching him, both hands greedily clutching his coat, pulling him into her. He sat up on his knees and held her head, his fingers sinking into those magical, soft tresses, thumbs touching at her neck. Her lips were soft and full, and her inexperience was obvious and a precious thing, something to be handled with care. It surprised him, therefore, to find her tongue in his mouth, to taste her saliva and to feel her hand touching under the top of his shirt. It excited him.

A giggle. He stopped. “What?” he asked, not sure he liked her laughing at him. Her nails were scratching at his chest.

“You're hairy.”

“Oh, yeah, baby. I'm all man.” Stealing another kiss, biting down on her lip, he ran his palms up her legs to clasp her thighs. They had a pleasing plumpness to them, especially given how small her waist was. Rapunzel was all-in-all disproportionately made, with large feet and ears and front teeth, generous hips and thighs, and tall enough in stature for him to feel less imposing than was the norm with other young ladies. Petite girls were a dime dozen. She filled his hands, she filled his sight and made him hungry for her. A blush covered her from her chest to her ears. This close, he could count the freckles, feel the heat coming off of her blush. It was too easy to imagine the heat emanating from... elsewhere. His grin was lurid. He wanted to have her right here, on the dirt floor, surrounded by death, feeling alive.

With her eager assistance, her clothes fell, pink and purple, laced and streaked with her own blood, until she was kneeling naked, her dress laid out beneath her as an impromptu blanket to protect her from the filth. She still looked grey, in varying hues. Even in the low light he could see that the hair between her legs was darker than that on her head, and that her nipples were the same fruity pink as her lips and cheeks. It went without saying that she was beautiful. He said it anyways, in that deep voice that made women tremble.

“I want you,” she said, and looked astonished that she had said so. He lifted his eyebrows, an unspoken question, to hear her say it again: “I want you!” And she laughed, the pretty bounce of it resounding in the underground.

The sight of his dick caused her to stare-- in horror or wonder, he couldn't say. It would be a shock to any virgin. He let her watch him, and showed her a few moves of his own, before moving on to the main event. Luckily he always had up to date protection. The moment came, the moment that he worried she would be in pain again, though he had prepared her as best he could with his tongue... instead, she let out astonished, delighted laughter. He buried his kisses in her hair and pushed on.

In the aftermath, they laid together, exhausted but bright-eyed, naked and vulnerable, and still, invincible in that moment. She had taken him completely aback by her enthusiasm. It had been a blurred tangle of long limbs and long hair. He took his kerchief and wiped his makeup tenderly off her face, gazing at her longingly as if they hadn't just made love.

Love. Ah, there it was.

He was in love.  
  


* * *

  
Nathan and Gothel stood before the cursed motel where he had spied his daughter entering with the man. 'The boyfriend' according to Gothel; he would not accept it. Shilo would not have hid a dalliance from him. The motel sported two rickety floors and a neon sign advertising vacancy and free cable. Eleanor stood back and extended her arm in an arc, indicating the manager's office. It was Repo Man that kicked open the door, splintering wood and tearing hinges, the man inside screaming. He had good reason to be afraid. The night surgeon was nigh.

Balding and plump, stains on his button-down shirt, the manager had backed up into the wall, tears in his craggy cheeks. At least he had managed a somewhat clean shave that morning. Repo flung a knife, narrowly and intentionally missing his ear. The man squealed like a stuck pig. Nathan, the father, crept forward, behind the front desk, to pat his shoulder in sympathy. His counterpart, his partner in crime and surgery, could be so cruel.

“Tell me where she is, and I'll be sure to leave some of you for the clean-up crew to find,” he murmured.

“Who?” he blubbered, bewildered.

“The girl you rented a room to... the underage girl.” He hit a button on his phone, showing Shilo's face in hologram form. Lovely, unassuming, and lost.

“Sir, I- I rent to whores all the time!” he protested. “Why is she different?”

Repo Man leered in his face, all teeth and manic eyes: “She's no whore. She's my daughter.” Before Nathan or Gothel could reach out and stop him, Repo Man had slashed him across his fat, piggish neck with his trusty scalpel, spraying red and rendering him forever incapable of speech or, sadly, divulging more information. He left him there, now slumped to the ground with a hand stupidly raised to his cut open neck.

“My, my,” Gothel purred, sauntering forward to show him what he had neglected: The guest registry book. She flipped through it. “They went into room two-one-seven, according to the security footage, no? That room was registered to one Flynn Rider. I believe I've seen his face posted around the city, when I happened to venture out. He's a criminal. He's trouble.” She tutted and looked at the dying man's body. “So are you, Nathan.”

She shed her cloak. It fell to the ground. Her fingers flew to the ties at the back of her dress, her chest heaving. It caught his eye. “What are you doing?” he asked.

What she had in mind was not unpleasant. She dragged him to the floor and covered him in kisses. Blood singing in his veins from the violence, he was amenable to her suggestive nature and slid along her body, making her sing, too. For the time they dawdled, he forgot his pursuit and his rage. She quieted the monster and fed it her flesh. Nathan, for his part, devoured her until she was a drooling, panting mess.

The floor grew sticky with blood.  
  


* * *

  
She had been called Flower when she was little. How fitting; she had given Graverobber her precious flower. The thought made her giggle and grin, a skip in her step. Beside her, he walked tall, confident, sporting a fresh purple mark on his neck. “What are you giggling at?” he asked.

“You,” she said, poking him in the side. He laughed, too, and they carried on like that. It was the afterglow. Rapunzel didn't regret a thing. The sex, after she had gotten over the fact that it was kind of gross and weird, was great fun, and another way for her to express her joy of liking someone. Liking the man who had saved her from her mother and from herself. She knew she owed him nothing. If she wanted to, she could make her own way in the world. But, lucky for him, she liked him and wanted to be his shadow.

So she did regret one thing, unrelated to Graverobber's presence in her life and his rigor. She regretted ever even thinking about taking her life, though she had been suffering. If she had committed suicide, she wouldn't have known how incredible life outside the tower was. It was beautiful, everyone colorful and strange, the air filled with weird smells, the food so different from her normal meals of stew and hard bread. After they cleaned themselves up and, whistling, left the graveyard, he bought her something called a submarine sandwich. It didn't resemble a ship at all and was instead piled high with meat and cheese and mustard. She loved it and licked mustard off her fingertips.

Still, she knew Mother was out there, hunting for her, tracking her. She haunted her steps. After walking the streets in silence, Graverobber noticed something was wrong and stopped, tipping up her chin with his finger, and asked what was troubling her.

“I'm worried my mother will find me,” she said, because she saw no reason to lie to him.

“Well, why don't we rid ourselves of this newly acquired Z and lay low at the selling point,” he suggested. “Then we'll think of something.” She couldn't wait to see a real, live drug deal. In person! They linked hands and hurried down the sidestreets and into an alley toward what he called the Zydrate Support Network meeting.

He pushed open the door, showing that confidence again. She really had a lot to learn from him. Following him in, she inhaled cigarettes and donuts. Smoke and sugar. Graverobber was watching a scene, drawing the line of her eyes to where his were fixed.

Surrounded by bright-haired and fishnet-clad people of various shapes and sizes and enhancements, two people pored over a holopad, a datapad that projected holograms to show two types of visual information at once. With the crowd around them, Rapunzel couldn't see the hologram.

“Thank you for bringing this to our attention,” the young man said. He was cute, floppy brown hair and a goatee, a messenger bag worn across his body. “Shilo, is this your dad?”

“Y-yes,” the girl beside him whispered. She was eerily pale, with long black hair and heavy eyeliner around sad eyes. Something about her was familiar, a figure from a dream. A ghost from her past. Rapunzel tilted her head and blinked, trying to place her. She took a step forward. The crowd shifted; the hologram became clear. In flickering, ghostly blue, a doctor approached a fat man, hissed in his face, then cut his throat. “It can't be,” the girl called Shilo said. “My dad... Repo Man...”

Another figure entered the picture. Rapunzel had no trouble placing her. She had haunted and shaped her life, had raised her and tortured her for her own gains. The sight made a lump in her throat. “Gothel,” she whispered.

Somehow, she was standing over the pair, sitting on chairs. The crowd had parted for the surgically unmodified beauty, Graverobber would tell her later, as the biblical Moses had parted the Red Sea with God's grace.

The little girl shut off the holopad and looked up at her. Only she wasn't a little girl at all. Rapunzel remembered, flashes all at once: visiting a mansion, closed doors, medical supplies and stuffed animals and pinned bugs, a slap across her face.

The girls spoke in unison, one word that said it all: “You!”

 


	6. Chapter 6

It began with the disease. Seventeen years ago, Nathan and Marni were newlyweds. Marni was free of Rotti, Mag was bound by contract and impending surgery, and the winter air carried sickness. Citizens who couldn't afford organ transplants or blood transfusions curdled where they walked until they collapsed in their ramshackle hideaways. The old friends, Marni, Mag, and Nathan assumed they would be spared and lived their lives, pitying those who died without GeneCo's cure.

Nathan was happy. Rotti's personal doctor and protege, his second in command even after all the drama of their entangled love lives. He'd even had Rotti stand at his side at his wedding to Marni. Water under the bridge, no hard feelings. At least, that's what he told himself. With his generous salary, he bought and paid for a home far from the plague zone, where they would be safe. At least, that's what he told himself.

Marni was far along in what would be her terminal pregnancy, seven months and long since outgrown all her opera clothes. It began with a cough. Her blood was diseased, but they did not know that then. Nathan was still operating under the delusion that she could be saved with his brilliance, his ego.

When he buried her, he buried part of himself, the best piece of him. The best piece of her lived on in the baby he could barely contemplate holding. At Rotti's insistence, that Shilo needed him, he picked himself back up and cared for his child, all while fulfilling his own contract. He even allowed Marni's eyes to be given to her dearest friend, Magdalene, now known as Blind Mag. She would not stay blind for long.

Nathan could not fathom life without Shilo. Without her to devote himself to, he would have ended his life with Marni's. He would not have undertaken the transformation from aspiring heir to Rotti's company and confidante to the ruler of the living world to errand dog, tearing out the throats and spines of anyone deemed worthy of his Repo treatment.

Shilo, just turned seventeen and set loose on the world he could not protect Marni from, had stayed in this shitty motel room with a criminal, a thief. The boy had stolen her and her pills, too. Repo Man may have been a monster but at least what he did was legal. Gothel sat on the bed, fingering the sheets and looking worse for wear than he'd ever seen her. Shadows had settled into hollows in her cheeks and under her eyes, the beginning stages of middle-aged wrinkles. He found himself pondering again how old she could be. At any rate, he swore to himself he would not become distracted again and let the trail grow any colder.

The room bore no trace of his child. Not a stray hair from her wig, not the cocoa butter smell of her lotion; the television wasn't even left on one of Blind Mag's performances. It was the weather, of all the absurd things. As if to capture some part of Shilo he was missing, he turned the channel to a repeat recording of the songbird. He'd heard she would be retiring soon. More's the pity, for his poor wife to have wasted the gift of her eyes. Shilo worshiped Mag and would no doubt be heartbroken to learn of her fate.

“I must find her,” he said, more to himself though it was admittedly loud enough for his companion to hear.

“We will, dear,” Gothel said, “and then you will help me find my Flower and bring her home.” He could hear the steely determination in her words in spite of the fact that he had made her no promises. If she insisted on tagging along, that was her choice; she was neither help nor hindrance to him at this point, so long as he kept her safely at arm's length. She was too tempting, and he was weak.

He was weak for her.

Shilo needed him to be strong.

“Nathan, dear, are you alright? You look pale,” Gothel purred, doing a good imitation of a concerned lover.

“No more distractions! I will kill anyone who keeps me from my daughter. Yes, including you,” he spat. Rudely interrupting his courageous resolve, a ringing emitted from his wrist communicator. _Incoming message from Rotti Largo. Incoming message from Rotti Largo._ The man's scowling face flickered in hologram, all bad toupees and stern jowls. Instead of letting it go to voicemail, he answered. “What?”

“You watch your tone,” Rotti said. “I have a new target for you. Where have you been?”

“I'm busy,” Nathan said.

Before his employer could say another word, Eleanor had stood, said, “We need to focus on looking for our daughters, don't you agree?” and shut off the conversation, hanging up on the most powerful man in existence.

That man sat in his office, in a chair crafted to feel like a throne, and was none too pleased to have been denied and then rudely treated not only by his pet Repo Man, but by some woman claiming to have his best interest at heart. Well, perhaps she deserved to lose her heart. He was quite disturbed by this turn of events. Without Nathan's cooperation, his plans for Shilo Wallace, for Blind Mag, and for the future of his beloved company would fracture like so many flecks of gold.

All information could be found somehow, through any of the avenues at his well-manicured fingertips. He would spend the next few hours looking through computers, citizen records, and security footage to learn the secrets of this rude mother and her offspring. It was her own fault for calling attention to herself and therefore calling his wrath down upon her. Perhaps if he found her daughter she would even kneel and apologize in exchange for the girl's return. He relished the thought.

And if Shilo Wallace was missing, well, the city was only so big, and the girl was leashed by her father's poisoned medicine. He was sure she had no money and would have to go running either home or to graverobbers.

“Amber, honey,” he said, gently. Amber peeked over at him from over her phone.

“Yes, Daddy?”

“Why don't you run along. But keep your guards on you. I want my princess to be kept safe.”

Those fetish-bound guards reported to him, knew more than Amber could ever have suspected, and when she inevitably chased down Graverobber for her street Z, perhaps some knowledge of Marni's daughter could be found. Perhaps her shame could bear some useful fruit. Heaven knows she'd never given him anything to be proud of. No wonder her mother had abandoned her and Pavi as children. He'd done his best with his children as a single father. It wasn't his fault they'd become ungrateful monsters.

Amber kissed him on the cheek and flounced off to the elevator, her silent and ever loyal butlers in tow. Those men would answer to him if they knew what was good for them and their families, thankfully still indebted to his whims.

* * *

 Shilo couldn't believe her eyes. The girl, the one who had stolen into her room and visited with her, was somehow right in front of her in the den of surgery addicts. Talk about coincidence! She looked the same. Taller, maybe.

“You're Shilo, aren't you,” the girl said. “I remember my doctor shouting your name.”

The good doctor; the evil Repo Man. She'd just seen her father kill someone. Shilo's head was throbbing under the pressure of these revelations. Nothing would ever be the same again. It could have been Dad's fault, for lying. More likely it was her fault for leaving the safety of home to chase a dead bug. Her hand found Flynn's and she nodded, her mouth too dry for words. Flynn squeezed her hand then let go.

“What's your name? I can't believe I never asked your name,” Shilo said.

“I'm Rapunzel. I guess I'm named for a plant,” she giggled. “Funny, huh?”

“What are you doing here?” Shilo asked. “None of this makes any sense. Last time I saw you I was in a training bra.”

“Oh, we're on the run from my mother,” Rapunzel said, adding with a twitch of her thumb towards the tall, eccentric looking fellow next to her, “And the law. I saw the tape while I was walking up to you two. The woman on there? That's my mother. And I recognize the other man. That's my old doctor, your father. Isn't it?” In answer, and feeling the blood drain from her face, Shilo nodded again.

Flynn scoffed and saved her from having to think of what to say. “Great, another runaway. Isn't this just a happy-go-lucky little coincidence.”

“Look, all that matters is keeping Rapunzel safe,” the graverobber said. “And, of course, in unloading my goods.” He patted the blonde on the head and beckoned some hungry-eyed zaddicts with him as he ambled off with Zydrate gun loaded and in hand. Flynn had been so kind as to explain the general proceedings to Shilo, who watched in somewhat horrified fascination. Certain coins exchanged hands. Also, certain injections.

“How do you get anywhere dragging all that hair around?” Flynn asked Rapunzel in disbelief. Shilo cracked a weak smile. She, at least, had the option of ditching her head of hair – and, with it, her dignity– if it ever proved too cumbersome.

“I carry it,” she said. “Duh.”

“Well, it's ridiculous if you're on the run. Shilo, girls like to braid hair, don't they? So... Braid her hair,” he suggested. He bent and whispered in her ear, “Sorry about your dad. It'll be fine.” She wasn't at all sure how it could be fine but recognized he was setting this up as a diversion for her. It was also a practical idea. Rapunzel squealed and bounced up and down, clapping her hands. Shilo let out a long sigh. This was going to be a long day; she could tell.

Rapunzel giggled with delight and retreated into a corner, hair in tow. The place had largely cleared, gaggles of people young and old queued around the newly popular man with the Zydrate gun. There was no putting it off any longer. Hopefully it would be painless compared to everything else Shilo had been through that day.

Without a brush, she opted to comb through her hair with her hands. Almost by a miracle, there were no significant mats or tangles. It was nicely soft; a pang of envy shot through her. While she puzzled over the daunting task of braiding the ladder of hair, she combed an unexpectedly short patch. She pulled aside blonde tresses to see one short lock of light brown hair.

“What's this?” she asked. “Your hair is short in only this one spot.”

“Oh, if you cut my hair, it turns brown and doesn't grow back,” she said, as if that were a reasonable explanation. Then again, life was weird: medicine came from decomposing brains, live repossessions were legal, and fathers were monsters.

“I... I see. Why did you run away from home, and with a graverobber to boot?”

“Graverobber's cute, isn't he?” she mused. Shilo didn't disagree... at least, not out loud. “I ran away because...” She looked left and right quickly to check for snoops, making her hair swish and sway. Shilo pulled her head back into place with a soft scolding cluck.

“You can tell me,” she said, sensing she needed someone to talk to. “It's not like I have anyone to gossip with, so your secret's safe with me.”

Rapunzel sighed. “Alright. Hey, you are my friend, aren't you?”

“Probably the first and only friend I've ever had,” Shilo agreed.

“Oh my gosh! Does that mean... that I'm your best friend?” Rapunzel asked. Shilo could hear the ear-to-ear smile and couldn't help but smile too, within reason. The girl's cheerfulness was damn infectious. She sort of glowed.

“Don't push it. Now, why did you run away? My dad was treating you for seizures, wasn't he? Don't you need medicine?” she pressed.

Rapunzel explained everything, the story pouring out like so much blood. The seizures happened after Gothel injured her, starting when she was a little girl and maybe before that, and she injured her to take advantage of her healing powers. Shilo saw no reason for her to lie and therefore did not ask for a demonstration. The seizures did not happen otherwise. Gothel rarely let her heal herself these days, even if the bleeding didn't stop, for if the wounds were still open, the magic in her blood still worked. Rapunzel came to realize that her mother didn't love her and had maybe never loved her at all. She knew nothing of her father, not even a name or a vague description. Shilo would never have imagined that someone else in this miserable world could be surgery free and simultaneously have a more fucked up life than her. So her dad was a Repo Man. At least she knew who he was. And he was a murderer, but at least he'd always treated her well, more or less. She pressed about her involvement with Graverobber, too, and her friend was all too gleeful in telling how he'd saved her life from suicide and from Gothel's abuse and helped her escape. He was helping her stay hidden from her abusive mother.

Shilo had the feeling from how enthusiastically she talked about the man that they were fucking, which was rather gross. She was kind of gross in general, blood stains on her dress and dirt all over her bare feet.

And somewhere in their quiet conversation, Rapunzel offered her sympathies for what Shilo reluctantly and gradually explained: that she had been locked up in her bedroom by her father since she was a child, was stricken with her late mother's blood disease, inadvertently ran away chasing a bug and now chose to stay away since she was relishing her newfound freedom, and that her father was an organ repo man. He killed for his living and to provide for hers. She would have to reckon with that truth and with the lies he had fed her for seventeen years. Both girls sat in silence while she finished with the braid.

“So what are you going to do?” Rapunzel asked. “You can't go back, can you? It's too dangerous.”

Of course, the world was dangerous and cruel, too, and filled with worse dangers than her own father could present. Shilo didn't point out that flaw in her logic. “I don't want to go back, and since I have my medicine now I don't need to. I think I'll stick with Flynn. That's Flynn Rider over there, the annoying one who told me to do your hair. He's a thief, too, but you know... he isn't so bad,” she said. “There, it's all done. It's not heavy like you'd expect.”

“And who's that with him?” she asked, tilting her head to test the weight.

The crowd shifted enough for Shilo to see a woman in a full Bettie Page ensemble leaning up on Flynn. He extricated himself from her with a disdainful smirk and waved at Shilo. She smiled and patted Rapunzel on the shoulder, standing on the balls of her feet to do so.

“That would be Amber Sweet, one of the heirs to GeneCo. And if you don't know what _that_ is, girl, there's really no help for you.”  


* * *

  
It began with the surgery. Seventeen years ago, after the loss of her best friend, Mag accepted the only thing Nathan had to give; Marni's eyes, cybernetically enhanced with all the latest corneal technology, would be planted into Blind Mag's sockets, giving her sight. The surgery went off without a hitch, and it was only after the surgery that she realized what she had done to herself, sold her life away for the privilege of seeing the world.

She had sold herself, as well, though unwittingly, and as Rotti said when he came to her bed night after night, she belonged to GeneCo, and therefore belonged to him.

The one bright point in her life was performing. Mag loved the stage, everything about it, even if she was selling products and a lifestyle she had never believed in. The company was Marni's dream, not hers. All Mag wanted was to sing, to tell stories to the embittered world through song. It carried her through nights clutching at the bedsheets and staring past him out the window, imagining she had someone watching over her through the glass. She glowed under spotlights and she hid beneath darkness in her room, wishing she were blind or at least not so alone. She imagined a world without her in it, or a world where she had refused the contract.

She had long stopped believing in God. God would not have taken Marni so young, made Nathan a stranger to her, killed Shilo before she was even born, foisted Rotti's greed on her tender skin. There seemed nothing to live for but the opera house.

Until she missed her period. For the first time in seventeen years, she prayed, then sent her bodyguard to summon a doctor. When the test came back positive, she smiled and pressed a palm to her abdomen.

Rotti was gentler to her after that in all their encounters, both personal and professional, though in her heart she believed none of it. After all, he had been gentle with Marni, too, and with the mothers of his children before her. It meant that she had something that he wanted; leverage, if she had had the ambition to use it. For her, it was her chance for redemption, to start again. In guiding the new life inside her, she could regain her sense of self, her worth, her hope. Something real to cling to in the absence of everything else. She did as she was told and remained pregnant. He thought it was a sign of her obedience. It was, in fact, the beginning of the end of it.

She was never more popular than when she was pregnant, anticipating the time when she would extend out to the point where she couldn't see her toes. Her fans worshiped her as if she were a patron saint, Maria come again to the world with a new heir to GeneCo. Rotti wore her on his arm at every opportunity.

Then Mag got sick. The disease that had infected her dear and departed friend had been latent in her blood since the transfer of eyes between their bodies, or so the doctors told her as she wept. She was confined to her bed. Marni had died of that same disease; she was not so foolish as to assume she was stronger than her and could survive this.

Rotti swore he would save her, for the sake of GeneCo's songbird and for the life still growing within. His researchers discovered a plant on the outskirts of town, a flower from the legends, said to have originated Zydrate and containing its purest form. It was the last of its kind and the ultimate advancement in medicine and he sacrificed it for her. Mag saw the flower after they tore it up by the roots, an orange and red bloom that glowed supernaturally like the sun. She was weak and sunken in her bed, and drank deeply of what she might have called a potion, a cup filled with the extracted powers of the rapunzel flower.

Doctors warned her that her unborn daughter may have been affected by her ingestion of rapunzel, yet each visit her growth was continual and healthy. All was as it should be. She insisted on a pure birth with no epidural and no intravenous Z. The pain grew and grew until it far out-measured the discomfort of its conception and Rotti ordered the Genterns to restrain her and sedate her to the music of her fading screams and the swish of an unfurled scalpel. She awakened naked and weak, the beautiful baby suckling at her breast, her eyes as large and green as Mag's had once been, her hair sunshine gold and long. Magdalene stroked her hair and murmured her name.

Flower...

“Mag, come to my office at once,” Rotti's voice crackled through her reverie on an intercom in her bedroom, making her stiff and shaky all at once. Since their daughter's disappearance, he was cold towards her, perhaps believing she had arranged the kidnapping. If so, he was a greater fool than she had ever reckoned to think she would ever willingly part with her child. Why, from the moment she laid eyes on her, her heart had opened anew and color had flooded into the darkness of her world. She thought she had known all that life had to offer, having traveled the world, tasted a little of all. All her experiences paled to being a mother.

The loss of her child at six months, Flower stolen from her crib, could have killed her. For a week, she barely slept and ate less than that. The searches were all for naught. With nothing left to do, and Rotti shunning her-- as if it had been her failure all along-- she focused on her work, on the great facade of her career.

After years and years, she could take it no more and broke the contract. She knew that meant her eyes were forfeit, and GeneCo would see her dead before the Largos saw her signed with another company. Mag had been biding her time and was ready to die.

Why, then, did she tremble as she walked into his office? Some mysteries had no answers. Rotti sat at his desk, his murderous children absent from his company, and his hands were steepled. He was deep in thought, she knew. She had had little to do these last seventeen years but study him, each little motion, and learn to read him like a favored book. Were it up to her, she would have replaced him on the shelf for a newer edition. A smile tugged her painted lips.

“What are you smiling for?” he demanded.

She stopped. “Nothing.”

He stared at her, and she stared back, both of them refusing to give an inch and go first.

Finally, he said, “I have good news for you. You needn't leave the company after all. At least, you won't want to.”

“No, Rotti, I've made up my mind. No matter the consequences, I must leave,” she said firmly.

Rotti took a remote from the button on his desk and the screen that filled the wall behind him populated with images, taken from security cameras around the island; a teenage girl strolling alongside a notorious graverobber. The images zoomed in on her face and filled in the gaps with details from her records: birth certificate, medical history, blood type, date of birth. It did not take reading the scrolling letters for Mag to recognize her own child. She knew her by heart from the moment she laid eyes on her once again. Gone all these years, there was her child. A ghost from her past.

“What... How... How did you find her?” she breathed.

“Her kidnapper made the error of slighting me. I've dispatched a Repo Man to secure her and Nathan Wallace; he was under her thrall and no longer obeying my directives.” He sighed. “Don't you see, Mag? You must stay. It would not be right to deprive a girl of her mother.”

“You must let me see her,” Mag said, a soft plea. “She is mine.”

“She is ours,” Rotti corrected. “I insist you see her, and I insist you keep the terms of your contract. Or would you rather she lose her mother the same day she reunites with her?”

She bowed her head. “I'll do as you say, then.”

“Wonderful. I'll bring her in to meet you.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

Amber pouted, obviously unused to being ignored. An unfortunate soul in towering heels and lime green fishnet stockings cried out when, upon crossing her path, the heiress shoved her with all her might into a trash bin and stepped delicately over her sprawled form. “Flynn, baby, what's the matter?” she mewled. “Don't you want a kiss?” She puckered up her lips and palmed his chest, lifting up one leg in a sad attempt at cutesy. It came across as arrested development, a grown woman playing teenaged. Shilo and Rapunzel exchanged a look.

He rolled his eyes and turned his head. “I don't think so, dollface. That's what you are. A porcelain doll. Is that even human skin on your cheeks, Sweet?”

Shilo snorted and Amber jerked a hideous look in her direction. “What's so funny? Oh, I get it. You two are fucking, aren't you? How sad. You know he just loves 'em and leaves 'em.” Her eyes could cut daggers through the teenager and if she had actual daggers, they'd most likely be sinking into her currently blushing skin.

“Easy, there, Betty Boop,” Flynn said. “Shilo and I aren't anything. Guys and girls can be friends without rolling into bed. Besides, you aren't here for my kiss or to criticize my manwhore ways. You're here for painkillers, right?”

She grinned and tossed her hair. “Shilo, you say? Hm... Maybe I am here for Z.”

“I got this,” Graverobber said, striding up to take her roughly by the sleeve and then shoving a hand in her purse for a pocketful of coins.

When she did not protest, only fixed him with hungry eyes, he pocketed his find and with his other hand depressed the needle of the Zydrate gun into the side of her neck. A dribble of blood ran down Amber Sweet's cleavage as she spasmed on the spot, gasping and moaning with the flood of nothingness. Her bodyguards caught her when she slumped down, and laid her in a corner. She snored soft and slow, the two eunuchs standing watch over her with their ever present stoic expressions.

Shilo, ever curious, crept closer in her short-heeled boots, and rubbernecked at the heiress. “So this is Amber Sweet, huh.”

“Yeah, I'm one of the few who can pick her out of a crowd no matter what cosmetic lift she's recently undergone,” Flynn bragged.

“Son, that's no rare accomplishment,” Graverobber snorted. “Been there. Done that.”

Rapunzel crossed her arms and would have looked miffed if she weren't smiling. It was too early in the morning for jealousy, if she even knew when to apply envy to a romantic situation. “Is that so?” she laughed. “I knew you were too good.”

“Shilo,” a voice said, not one emanating from someone standing in the room. Amber's wrist communicator, aglow, displayed Rotti Largo's austere bust, spinning in rendered hologram the same ghostly blue as the glow that came from the dead. “If my assumptions are correct, my daughter has found you by now. A driver will be coming by to pick up Amber. Bring the blonde girl with you; all will be explained.” Softly sinister laughter faded out the message and ended in crinkling static. Shilo bent and shut off the call while Amber continued to snore.

She stood to her full height, not tall at all even in heels, and looked at her new friends. “That was Rotti Largo,” she stated, stunned. “What would he want with you?”

Flynn shrugged. “He knows you're traipsing 'round with the notorious Flynn Rider, and I've been known to steal from his not-so beloved daughter's inheritance.”

“This is not about you, Flynn,” she said snidely. “He addressed me by name. He knew where I was. Where _we_ were,” she added with a significant glance at Rapunzel. “Rapunzel, I don't think this is safe.”

“Girls, girls, you may not have a choice,” Graverobber said, his attention on the door. With incoming sirens and the Zydrate dispensed, people were fleeing the scene, stumbling over each other, tugging on hands and skirts and wigs as they evacuated with as much haste as their lack of sobriety would allow. “There are two kinds of people in this world: those who take, and those who get robbed. Which kind do you think Rotti Largo is? Which kind do you think you tender morsels are?”

“If what you say is true,” Rapunzel said, “then I have no choice but to go with Shilo. She shouldn't go alone. Graverobber, you'll come with me, won't you?” She took him lovingly by the hand and gazed level with his eyes. He sighed and nodded.

“I'm sure he wants to speak with Shilo if her father's gone rogue, use her to control him somehow,” Graverobber speculated, stroking his chin with his free hand. “It baffles the mind to think of how a young woman literally locked in a tower would play into all this. We shall see. You coming, Flynn?”

Flynn shook his head, disgust plain on his face. “Nah, I'm going to wait here with Miss Sweet. No reason to put my own head in the noose. You crazy kids have fun.”

Shilo shrugged. “Coward,” she said, but it was an affectionate pronouncement. He grabbed her and gave her a hug around the side before kneeling at Amber's drunken living corpse. The way he took her wrist to check if her pulse stayed steady was almost tender.

The trio, headed by Shilo, headed for the closed door. It slammed open. A woman in a dark cloak and long, red gown stood haughty and cold, observing the three of them. Nathan Wallace lurked behind in Repo Man gear. Shilo froze the moment she laid her sights on him. She knew his eyes, even behind the eerie blue light in his helmet. They were soft, hurt, tired, home; her daddy's eyes. He reached for his helmet, unlatched it, and showed his identity to those within, showed what she had somehow always known: that her father, her doctor, the same as the city's monster. The runaway daughter, the ill girl, reached out a pale and trembling hand for the madman that she loved.

“Oh, please,” Gothel muttered, shoving her aside in one swift motion. She lurched and staggered to her hands and knees, her blood pressure spiking, heart in a state of frantic protest. Coughs burst forth, though Rapunzel's mother paid her no mind.

“Shilo!” Nathan was by her in a heartbeat, taking her pulse, pushing the fabric of wig out from in front of her eyes. This man who left bodies in his wake and guts in a sterile cooler, caring for her as if nothing was wrong. “Never leave me again. Please.”

With his help, she took her medicine dry, a lump of pill and tears in her throat after she swallowed. This time, it did nothing to stop her pounding pulse or the lightness in her head. She brushed her fingers over new stubble on his cheeks with childlike wonder as sight and thought faded.

Gothel stalked toward Rapunzel, who refused to back away, defying the wayward mother to come claim her if she dared.

“Mother,” Rapunzel said coolly, lifting her chin in much the way she'd seen her do time and time again. “You may leave. I have other arrangements now.”

“Oh, I _may_ leave?” she laughed, an ugly sound. She looked so old, older than she'd ever been before, yet she was far from having a motherly affect, or appearing to be wizened grandmother. Every part of her read crone, a wicked witch from some grim fairy tale. How pitiful she seemed, so desperate for youth and beauty that she'd hurt her own blood for it. Rapunzel had no doubt that Gothel would spill every drop if it would reveal itself to be a fountain of youth. This time she would put up a fight to keep her arms mended and veins pristine. “Tell me, pet, if you would be happy being on the run with this... gravedigger.”

“Graverobber,” he interrupted.

“Actually, Mother, I'm off to meet with Rotti Largo. He's sent for Shilo and me and, well, he must think I'm of some importance.”

The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her as dry and lifeless as one of the city's many corpses. “No. Not him. He can't have you back.”

“Back? What are you talking about?” she demanded hotly. The understanding seeped in bit by bit with each passing moment, until she took a step back, another, her hand to her brow, holding in her brains. “No. You're not my mother, are you?”

“That's right,” she said, regaining her composure if not her healthy color. “They took the last of my rapunzel. The plague destroyed it all and he and his songbird got you. You are mine by right, the last living seed of my flower. Do you think this world won't abuse you? Wherever you go, I will find you, and I will bring you home.”

“I... I believe you. Very well. Let me at least say goodbye to my friends,” Rapunzel pleaded. “I'm never going to see them again.”

“Fine. Do what you must.” She waved her hand, dismissing her. “Your last taste of freedom. Savor it, dearest.”

She tossed herself into Graverobber's arms. He clutched her close, arms wrapped around her back. “I'm not letting you do this,” he said into her ear. “I'll fight a bitch.”

With a gentle laugh, she kissed his cheek and said, “It was never up to you.” He looked like a lost child when she pulled back to look at him, one last time before everything changed, hoping with all her might that it was for the best. It had to be.

Then she turned, having lifted the Zydrate gun from Graverobber's belt, and thrust it into Gothel's chest where her bitter heart would be. The gun went off with a spark and, empty of any Z, injected only oxygen. Gothel's grip snapped up and around Rapunzel's wrist, chokingly tight, the woman gasping, wrinkling, and shaking with the force of the heart attack that lanced her system. Her stolen daughter recalled every dig with a needle and scalpel, nights of seizures and suffering, and willed tears not to fall. They did anyways.

She stayed resolute and standing, peeled the skeletal fingers from her flesh, and watched the monster she had called Mother collapse into a heap of bones and cloth. The Zydrate gun rested atop the pile, void of any flesh to cling to. Graverobber cleared his throat and stepped on up to retrieve his property. “You okay?” he asked her.

“I think I am,” she said.

The Repo Man held a swooned Shilo to his chest, the moonlight painting them both a sickly shade of ghost. It wasn't clear whether the tears he shed were for his sick child or for the loss of a lover. What mattered was that Rapunzel was free, free forever. Everything else – Shilo's health included – could be fixed with the help of the most powerful, wealthy man alive. Elated, Rapunzel kissed Graverobber hard on the mouth and when they broke apart, the pair were gone, leaving only a patch of moonlight in their wake.

Flynn, Rapunzel, and Graverobber called and hunted for Shilo, to no avail. She was gone. They would have continued the search had Rotti's driver, a mustachioed man accompanying a black limousine, not shown up in the open door. He looked down at the pile of bones in a dress and then back up at the three, turned, and wordlessly extended his arm out to where transportation awaited.

“I know it's early to meet my parents,” Rapunzel teased, “but maybe you could make an exception for me.”

“Oh, just this once,” he teased right back. “You can handle yourself, I'll say that much. What do you say, Flynn Rider? This girl has adventure written all over her, and maybe her dear dad can help you locate your girlfriend and her maniac Pop.”

“She's not my girlfriend,” Flynn protested, and sighed. “There's a certain logic to what you're saying. Alright, alright. I'll come along.”

The three of them, along with Amber's bodyguards and Amber Sweet lying limp between them, huddled into the hearse for the long drive to the Largo's estate in the heart of the city, where destiny awaited the youngest Largo child. She bounced her bare feet and twisted her thick braid in her hands the whole time. No music played to idle the time save the soft hum of the engine and the crackle of radio announcements sifting through the city streets, charting advertisements, stating the latest and greatest news on politics, technological advancements, and famous charity auctions. Rapunzel couldn't focus on any of it.

Her father. She was going to meet her real father.

Her mother. Her mother was dead. No, Gothel wasn't her mother, never had been, and she didn't exist in the world anymore. Her fault. The cost for her freedom, a life. Those thoughts hurt like little cuts on her wrist. She did her best to shut them out until, at last...

They reached the veritable manor, complete with a driveway several miles long and flanked by pointless green lawn, tall marble statues. Parked in front of a sparkling and babbling fountain, the eunuchs escorted them out and laid Amber on a waiting stretcher to be carried off to her room by cheery Genterns. The driver escorted Rapunzel and her small entourage to the entrance of an elevator in the foyer. Graverobber had the good sense to wipe his shoes before setting foot inside, and when he did he was rewarded with a hand to hold and the girl leaning into his side. The property was like a dream, gilded gold and gleaming, the shadows playing tricks and making each aspect look larger and more opulent. They were ushered into the elevator, sealed in, and sent up to who knows where.

The city fell below them, the ground lurching unpleasantly, till the doors stopped and, with a ding, opened on an austere office. Screens filled the wall behind the desk and in the high-backed leather chair sat an imposing figure in a well-cut suit and well-coiffed silver mane. On either side of him, two severe women in blue lipstick carrying large guns.

“Ah, Flower,” he said, stretching out both palms toward her. He rose to a formidable height, even taller than her Graverobber, and approached. “The years have been kind to you, my daughter.”

“Thank you,” she said shyly. “My name is Flower? I've been called Rapunzel all my life.”

“For the flower that saved your mother's life, of course,” he said. “Yes, you are Flower Largo. I hear you disposed of your kidnapper. Well done.” They clasped hands and this was it, the moment where she found her true family and place to belong.

His hands were cold and dry, like paper. She clutched gingerly and tried to smile. “I didn't have a choice,” she tried to explain.

“I'm proud of you nonetheless,” he said.

“You're proud of me for... killing the woman who raised me?” she said in disbelief.

“For emptying the trash, yes. She was not your mother, Flower. She was a thief, a lowlife. I'm less than pleased to see you consorting with similar _cafones_ ; peasants.” He fairly spat the word. “The man who has defiled Amber's bed, and a graverobber who peddles street narcotics. You can do better, and in the days to come you will do better.” He snapped his fingers and a cop came from an open door to handcuff Flynn.

Flynn Rider, for his part, seemed to have been expecting as much. With a sigh, he offered up his wrists and didn't fight back. “Hey, guys, if you see Shilo again... Tell her I'm sorry I couldn't save her. I can't even save myself.” The gencop slugged him in the head and he went down, unconscious, and was dragged away. Flower gaped in horror. This Rotti Largo was not the father she had always dreamed of, patient and tender.

“He didn't do anything wrong,” she protested.

“If you come to see things my way,” he said, “the world will be in your grasp. You don't need friends when you have freedom.”

“Please, Mr. Largo,” she said, taking Graverobber's hand. “This man isn't just my friend. I love him.”

“So it's love, eh? I've thought myself in love before,” Rotti scoffed. “Lovers will betray you and break your heart. It's best to break those bonds instead and see the world for how it really is. I can't have you carrying on with a criminal. If word got out... I will need you to prove you're ready to be GeneCo's one true heir.”

“What do you want me to do?” Flower asked, her gut sinking.

Rotti Largo smiled beatifically and lifted his hand to the darkness behind them. Flower spun to see the most lovely woman she'd ever seen with a pillow in her hands. On that pillow laid a pair of large, gold scissors, suitable for event openings.

“Your mother, and your future,” he announced. “I've already signed the contract handing over control of the company to you. Now, my dear, take the scissors and ruin this man, and join our family.”

She couldn't stop looking at her, even as the horrible words of her blood father permeated into the recesses of her mind. Her delicate face was framed by blossoms of soft brown curls, and the look on her face was hauntingly sad; doll's eyes, blue and mechanical looking, that seemed incapable of tears, and all her features were held still. Rapunzel didn't know much about people, but even she could see that this woman was afraid, so afraid that she couldn't act out, move, or speak beyond what was commanded of her.

Graverobber looked wary, not afraid, though he was cornered. He trusted her, even after she'd killed Gothel. It gave her a glow unrelated to her hair.

“I have to do what's best for me,” she told him, and took the scissors in her right hand. She lifted them in front of her face and spread the blades to catch her own reflection. In the open space between, she saw Graverobber, his painted face, the anticipation written on him in a furrowed brow and tight black lips.

Then she turned and slashed out at Rotti, drawing blood from his cheek and sending him staggering back. The women with guns began to raise their weapons and her mother raised her hand and cried out in a rich and silky tone, “As the voice of GeneCo, I forbid you to hurt her!” They lowered their arms and bowed their heads.

“You... you will be sorry!” Rotti snarled, blood in his mouth.

“I'm already sorry,” Rapunzel declared, taking a step toward him. “I'm sorry I ever met you!” She shut her eyes tight and stabbed down at him, the scissors squishing into his head. She screamed, let go, stumbled backwards into her mother's arms.

The woman encircled her and they dropped to the floor together, mother and daughter, reunited at last. There wasn't a need for words, not when her mother began to softly sing to her and stroke her cheeks, wiping up the tears and the hot drops of blood. She didn't dare open her eyes. They had a lifetime to catch up on lost memories and to rebuild the world in their own image.

Her first act, as GeneCo's heir, was to quietly pardon Graverobber and Flynn Rider. Flynn thanked her and set off for the Wallace mansion, and stole Shilo away once more. Standing on the foyer of the Largo estate, he and Shilo said goodbye to the friends that had delivered them from imprisonment.

“Don't kill my dad,” Shilo told Flower, half-teasing. “Just delay him long enough for us to disappear.”

“It's all so exciting, isn't it? Drop in if you ever need anything,” Flower told her with a kiss on her cheek.

That was the last Flower and Graverobber ever saw of Shilo Wallace.

Flower Largo ruled GeneCo alongside Blind Mag, who was released from her contract. Graverobber eventually settled down in Gothel's abandoned tower, refurbished to house stray animals. A long way down the road, he and Flower adopted, but never married.

Shilo Wallace was never heard from again. Two shady vagabonds became famed worldwide for their travels and outlandish capers-- as well as for their friends in high places, always willing to pull strings to keep them from the noose.

They were all free, on their own terms.

 


End file.
